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THE  MARBLE  FAUN 

By  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 
Illustrated  with  Photogravures 
IN  TWO  VOLUMES 


VOLUME  I. 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2018  with  funding  from 
Getty  Research  Institute 


https://archive.org/details/marblefaunorroma01hawt_1 


_ 


THE  MARBLE  FAUN 

OR  THE  ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI 
BY  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 
ILLUSTRATED  WITH 
PHOTOGRAVURES 
VOLUME  I 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 
<&\)t  tfitoersitie  Catnbridoe 


m  dccc  xc 


Copyright,  1860, 

By  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 
Copyright,  1883, 

By  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO. 
Copyright,  1888, 

By  ROSE  HAWTHORNE  LATHROP. 
Copyright,  1889, 

By  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO. 

All  rights  reserved . 


The  Riverside  Press ,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 
Elactrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  and  Company. 

Photogravures  executed  by  A.  W.  Elson  §  Co.,  Boston. 


PUBLISHERS’  ADVERTISEMENT. 


Ever  since  the  first  publication  of  The  Marble 
Faun ,  travellers  and  lovers  of  Rome  have  used  the 
book  as  a  souvenir,  and  have  found  in  its  pages 
a  most  agreeable  record  of  impressions  created  by 
the  Eternal  City  and  by  the  works  of  art  preserved 
there.  So  satisfactory  is  the  book  in  this  regard  that 
it  early  became  the  custom  of  visitors  to  Italy  to 
collect  photographs  of  the  statues,  paintings,  and 
buildings  referred  to  in  the  romance,  and  to  inter¬ 
leave  the  book  with  them ;  and  this  has  become  so 
common  that  dealers  in  Rome  and  Florence  make 
it  their  practice  to  keep  such  photographs  arranged 
and  ready  for  the  traveller. 

Nevertheless,  photographs  are  unsatisfactory  pic¬ 
tures  for  such  a  purpose,  and  the  volumes  in  which 
they  are  interleaved  are  apt  to  be  displeasing  to  a 
fastidious  collector.  The  publishers  of  Hawthorne’s 
works  have  therefore  taken  the  hint  from  this  well- 
established  custom,  and  have  prepared  the  following 
edition,  by  printing  the  work  in  two  volumes  and 
adding  to  the  text  photogravures  of  fifty  subjects. 
Great  care  has  been  taken  by  the  publishers  in  the 


11 


PUBLISHERS'  ADVERTISEMENT. 


choice  of  photographs,  and  their  selection  is  not  a 
mere  repetition  of  the  dealer’s  choice.  Every  travel¬ 
ler  knows  that  there  is  a  wide  difference  between 
the  best  and  the  poorest  of  these  photographs,  and 
no  pains  have  been  spared  to  obtain  the  best  made 
directly  from  the  objects  themselves. 

The  publishers  trust  that  they  have  thus  given 
Hawthorne’s  classic  a  presentation  more  acceptable, 
not  only  to  travellers  but  to  all  lovers  of  art  and  let¬ 
ters,  than  would  have  been  possible  had  they  resorted 
to  the  ordinary  method  of  employing  artists  to  illus¬ 
trate  the  story.  Some  of  the  buildings  illustrated 
have  disappeared  since  Hawthorne  saw  them  and 
wrote  of  them ;  others  are  likely  to  be  altered  or 
removed  in  the  rapid  change  which  is  passing  over 
Rome,  and  the  work  thus  becomes  a  valuable  record 
of  the  past  as  well  as  a  pleasure  to  the  eye. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 


Introductory  Note  . 

. 

7 

Preface  . 

13 

Chap.  I. 

Miriam,  Hilda,  Kenyon,  Donatello 

19 

II. 

The  Faun  . 

26 

III. 

Subterranean  Reminiscences  . 

35 

IV. 

The  Spectre  of  the  Catacomb 

43 

V. 

Miriam’s  Studio  .... 

53 

VI. 

The  Virgin’s  Shrine 

68 

VII. 

Beatrice . 

80 

VIII. 

The  Suburban  Villa 

89 

IX. 

The  Faun  and  Nymph 

97 

X. 

The  Sylvan  Dance 

106 

XI. 

Fragmentary  Sentences  . 

114 

XII. 

A  Stroll  on  the  Pincian 

122 

XIII. 

A  Sculptor’s  Studio  . 

138 

XIV. 

Cleopatra  .... 

149 

XV. 

An  JEsthetic  Company 

158 

XVI. 

A  Moonlight  Ramble 

170 

XVII. 

Miriam’s  Trouble 

182 

XVIII. 

On  the  Edge  of  a  Precipice 

191 

XIX. 

The  Faun’s  Transformation 

203 

XX. 

The  Burial  Chant 

210 

XXI. 

The  Dead  Capuchin  . 

219 

XXII. 

The  Medici  Gardens 

. 

. 

229 

XXIII. 

Miriam  and  Hilda 

236 

XXIV. 

The  Tower  among  the  Apennines 

. 

. 

248 

XXV. 

Sunshine . 

256 

LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAGE 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne . Frontispiece 

The  Faun  of  Praxiteles . 22 

The  Dying  Gladiator . 30 

Saint  Cecilia . 40 

In  the  Catacombs . 46 

Hilda’s  Tower,  Via  Portoghese . 68 

Guido’s  Beatrice  Cenci  .  .  .  .  •  .  .84 

Piazza  del  Popolo . 120 

Fountain  of  Moses,  Pincian  Garden . 122 

View  from  the  Pincian  Hill . 130 

Grand  Stairs  from  the  Piazza  di  Spagna  .  .  .  .136 

Canoya’s  Studio . 138 

The  Rape  of  the  Sabines . 150 

Fountain  of  Trevi . 172 

A  Roman  Peasant . 174 

Trajan’s  Column  and  Forum . 178 

The  Coliseum . 182 

Interior  of  the  Coliseum . 184 

Arch  of  Constantine . 188 

Arch  of  Titus . 190 

Roman  Forum . 194 

Approach  to  the  Capitol;  to  the  left,  Steps  of  the 

Ara  Coeli . 196 

Statue  of  Marcus  Aurelius . 198 

Guido’s  Saint  Michael . 216 

Capuchin  Crypt . 226 

Medici  Gardens .  234' 

Dining-Room  of  an  Italian  Palace  .....  260 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE. 


THE  MARBLE  FAUN. 

The  last  of  Hawthorne’s  completed  romances  was 
also  thought  by  its  author  to  be  his  best.  “  The 
Marble  Faun  ”  certainly  was  the  outcome  of  copious 
observation  and  mature  deliberation  ;  and  it  was  pro¬ 
duced  after  he  had  rested  from  composition  for  the 
space  of  five  years.  He  began  the  book  in  the  winter 
of  1859,  at  Rome,  while  harassed  by  illness  in  his 
family,  and  to  some  extent  distracted  by  the  number 
of  interests  appealing  to  him  on  all  sides  —  “  interrup¬ 
tions,”  as  he  expressed  it,  “  from  things  to  see  and 
things  to  suffer.” 

He  wrote  to  Mr.  Fields  at  this  time :  “  I  take  great 
credit  to  myself  for  having  sternly  shut  myself  up  for 
an  hour  or  two  almost  every  day,  and  come  to  close 
grips  with  a  romance  which  I  have  been  trying  to 
tear  out  of  my  mind.  As  for  my  success,  I  can’t  say 
much.  ...  I  only  know  that  I  have  produced  what 
seems  to  be  a  larger  amount  of  scribble  than  either 
of  my  former  romances,  and  that  portions  of  it  in¬ 
terested  me  a  good  deal  while  I  was  writing  them.” 

He  had  already  begun  to  sketch  the  romance  dur¬ 
ing  the  previous  summer  while  at  Florence,  where 
he  wrote,  in  his  journal,  with  reference  to  this  new 
scheme :  “It  leaves  me  little  heart  for  journalizing 


8 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE. 


and  describing  new  things  ;  and  six  months  of  unin¬ 
terrupted  monotony  would  be  more  valuable  to  me  just 
now,  than  the  most  brilliant  succession  of  novelties.” 
Soon  after  this  he  removed  from  his  quarters  in  the 
city  to  the  villa  of  Montauto  on  the  hill  called  Bello- 
sguardo,  about  a  mile  from  Florence.  This  is  a  lovely 
spot,  and  the  view  from  it  over  the  valley  of  the  Arno 
has  since  been  described  by  a  sympathetic  traveller, 
himself  a  poet,  as  suggesting  an  outlook  upon  some 
“glade  of  heaven.”  The  villa  itself,  which  remains 
standing,  and  is  occasionally  occupied  by  American 
tenants,  is  a  capacious,  old-fashioned  building,  with  a 
tower,  and  served  as  the  model  for  Donatello’s  ances¬ 
tral  home,  Monte  Beni.  At  the  time  of  Hawthorne’s 
residence  there,  it  was  invested  with  a  sort  of  tradi¬ 
tion  not  likely  to  lessen  its  desirability  for  him  —  that 
of  being  haunted.  A  murder  was  said  to  have  been 
committed  at  some  epoch  conveniently  remote,  in  a 
small  oratory,  in  the  tower ;  and  from  time  to  time 
semi-unaccountable  sounds  —  the  rustling  of  unseen 
robes,  stealthy  steps,  and  groans  from  the  oratory,  — 
were  heard,  which  passed  as  evidence  that  the  tragedy 
was  reenacting  by  the  murderer  and  the  victim.  Here 
Hawthorne  continued,  no  doubt,  to  dream  over  his  new 
story,  perhaps  putting  an  occasional  touch  to  it.  On 
the  journey  thence  to  Siena,  in  October,  he  left  the 
manuscript  in  a  bag,  under  one  of  the  seats  in  the 
railway  carriage  ;  but,  as  he  notes  down,  on  going  to 
search  for  his  luggage,  “  At  last  the  whole  of  our  ten 
trunks  and  tin  bandbox  were  produced,  and  finally 
my  leather  bag,  in  which  was  my  journal  and  a  manu¬ 
script  book  containing  my  sketch  of  a  romance.  It 
gladdened  my  very  heart  to  see  it.” 

While  in  Rome,  Hawthorne  went  on  laboring  and 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE. 


9 


meditating  upon  “The  Marble  Faun,”  the  general 
theme  and  scope  of  which  he  occasionally  descanted 
upon  to  his  friend  John  Lothrop  Motley,  during  the 
rambles  which  they  took  together ;  though  the  ro¬ 
mancer  never  gave  the  historian  any  clew  to  the  whole 
problem  of  his  still  unfinished  work.  Partly  because 
of  the  interruptions  already  mentioned,  and  partly  for 
other  reasons,  the  book  did  not  progress  beyond  the 
stage  of  an  elaborate  sketch  until  Hawthorne  quitted 
the  Continent.  44  I  find  this  Italian  air,”  he  had  said 
in  a  letter  from  Florence,  44  not  favorable  to  the  close 
toil  of  composition,  although  it  is  a  very  good  air  to 
dream  in.  I  must  breathe  the  fogs  of  old  England, 
or  the  east-winds  of  Massachusetts,  in  order  to  put  me 
into  working  trim.”  Finally,  on  getting  to  England, 
he  systematically  set  about  concluding  his  task,  as 
Mrs.  Hawthorne  has  explained. 

“More  than  four  months  were  now  taken  up  in 
writing  4  The  Marble  Faun,’  in  great  part  at  the  sea¬ 
side  town  of  Redcar,  Yorkshire,  Mr.  Hawthorne  having 
concluded  to  remain  another  year  in  England,  chiefly 
to  accomplish  that  romance.  In  Redcar,  where  he  re¬ 
mained  till  September  or  October,  he  wrote  no  jour¬ 
nal,  but  only  the  book.  He  then  went  to  Leaming¬ 
ton,  where  he  finished  4  The  Marble  Faun,’  in  March 
[I860].”1 

“The  long,  hairy  ears  of  Midas,”  in  the  44 Virtu¬ 
oso’s  Collection,”  have  already  been  spoken  of  as  fur¬ 
nishing  a  slight  intimation  of  Hawthorne’s  interest  in 
such  a  phenomenon,2  long  before  he  went  to  Italy. 
But  the  first  positive  trace  of  the  conception,  which 

1  French  and  Italian  Note-Books ,  June  22,  1859. 

2  See  the  prefatory  note  to  Mosses  from  an  Old  Manse,  in  this 
edition. 


10 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE. 


was  to  ripen  into  “  The  Marble  Faun,”  appears  in  the 
“  French  and  Italian  Note-Books,”  under  the  date  of 
April  22,  1858.  Setting  down  a  brief  account  of  his 
visit  to  the  Capitol,  Hawthorne  says  :  — 

“We  afterwards  went  into  the  sculpture  gallery, 
where  I  looked  at  the  Faun  of  Praxiteles,  and  was 
sensible  of  a  peculiar  charm  in  it ;  a  sylvan  beauty  and 
homeliness,  friendly  and  wild  at  once.  The  length¬ 
ened  but  not  preposterous  ears,  and  the  little  tail 
which  we  infer,  have  an  exquisite  effect,  and  make  the 
spectator  smile  in  his  very  heart.  This  race  of  fauns 
was  the  most  delightful  of  all  that  antiquity  imagined. 
It  seems  to  me  that  a  story,  with  all  sorts  of  fun  and 
pathos  in  it,  might  be  contrived  on  the  idea  of  their 
species  having  become  intermingled  with  the  human 
race  .  .  .  the  pretty  hairy  ears  should  occasionally 
reappear  in  members  of  the  family;  and  the  moral 
instincts  and  intellectual  characteristics  of  the  faun 
might  be  most  picturesquely  brought  out,  without  det¬ 
riment  to  the  human  interest  of  the  story.  Fancy 
this  combination  in  the  pers  n  of  a  young  lady !  ” 

It  is  believed  by  a  member  of  the  author’s  family 
that  one  of  the  Counts  of  Montauto,  whose  personal 
appearance  and  grace  were  known  to  have  made  an 
impression  on  Hawthorne,  furnished  him  with  sugges¬ 
tions  which  established  a  connection  between  the  Faun 
of  Praxiteles  and  the  Montauto  villa  as  it  afterward 
appeared,  under  the  guise  of  Monte  Beni.  This  living 
figure  may  also  perhaps  have  assisted  him  in  giving 
reality  to  his  conception  of  Donatello.  The  young 
Italian  of  the  romance,  whose  resemblance  to  the 
statue  is  made  an  important  point,  receives  appropri¬ 
ately  the  name  of  a  famous  Italian  sculptor ;  a  name 
of  which  the  associations  form  a  link  between  the  mar- 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE. 


11 


ble  and  the  man.  The  assertion  has  often  been  put 
forth  in  private,  and  it  may  be  in  print  also,  that 
Hawthorne  made  studies  for  other  personages  in  the 
story  from  people  of  his  acquaintance,  and  even  from 
members  of  his  own  family  or  household.  It  is  per¬ 
haps  advisable  to  state  here  that  there  is  no  authority 
whatever  for  such  an  assertion,  excepting  the  unaided 
fancy  of  those  who,  having  known  something  of  his 
connections,  chose  to  trace  purely  imaginary  resem¬ 
blances.  With  the  problem  of  Donatello’s  develop¬ 
ment  into  a  being  with  a  conscience  was  interwoven 
the  mystery  of  Miriam’s  situation,  concerning  which 
no  more  need  be  said  in  this  place  than  that  it  was 
evidently  inspired  by  the  author’s  reflections  upon  the 
story  of  Beatrice  Cenei.1  Of  the  original  of  Hilda’s 
tower  in  the  Via  Portoghese,  at  Rome,  a  description 
is  given  in  the  “  Note-Books  ”  (May  15,  1858),  to¬ 
gether  with  the  legend  accounting  for  the  perpetual 
light  at  the  Virgin’s  shrine  on  the  tower.  (Among 
Italians,  this  story  has  imparted  to  the  building  the 
name  of  Torre  del  Simio .) 

Several  names  were  proposed  for  the  romance,  and 
among  them  “  The  Transformation  of  the  Faun.” 
This  the  English  publishers  shortened  to  “  Transfor¬ 
mation,”  while  in  America  the  work  was  brought  out 
with  the  better  known  title,  preferred  by  Hawthorne 
himself,  “  The  Marble  Faun :  a  Romance  of  Monte 
Beni.”  Among  the  many  tokens  of  success  which  its 
publication  brought  to  Hawthorne  was  a  letter  from 
Motley,  with  an  extract  from  which  this  note  may 
close  :  — 

“  Everything  that  you  have  ever  written,  I  believe, 

1  Should  the  reader  care  to  see  a  discussion  of  this  matter,  the 
ninth  chapter  of  A  Study  of  Hawthorne  may  be  cousulted. 


12 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE. 


I  have  read  many  times.  .  .  .  But  the  c  Romance  of 
Monte  Beni,’  has  the  additional  charm  for  me  that  it 
is  the  first  hook  of  yours  that  I  have  read  since  I  had 
the  pleasure  of  making  your  personal  acquaintance. 
My  memory  goes  back  at  once  to  those  walks  (alas, 
not  too  frequent)  we  used  to  take  along  the  Tiber,  or 
in  the  Campagna  ;  .  .  .  and  it  is  delightful  to  get 
hold  of  the  book  now,  and  know  that  it  is  impossible 
for  you  any  longer,  after  waving  your  wand  as  you 
occasionally  did  then,  indicating  where  the  treasure 
was  hidden,  to  sink  it  again  beyond  plummet’s  sound. 
.  .  .  With  regard  to  the  story,  which  has  been  some¬ 
what  criticised,  I  can  only  say  that  to  me  it  is  quite 
satisfactory.  I  like  those  shadowy,  weird,  fantastic, 
Hawthornesque  shapes  flitting  through  the  golden 
gloom  which  is  the  atmosphere  of  the  book.  I  like 
the  misty  way  in  which  the  story  is  indicated  rather 
than  revealed  ;  the  outlines  are  quite  definite  enough 
from  the  beginning  to  the  end,  to  those  who  have  im¬ 
agination  enough  to  follow  you  in  your  airy  flights  ; 
and  to  those  who  complain,  I  suppose  that  nothing  less 
than  an  illustrated  edition,  with  a  large  gallows  on  the 
last  page,  with  Donatello  in  the  most  pensile  of  atti¬ 
tudes  —  his  ears  revealed  through  a  white  night-cap  — 
would  be  satisfactory.” 

In  replying  to  this,  Hawthorne  wrote  :  u  You  work 
out  my  imperfect  efforts  and  half  make  the  book  with 
your  warm  imagination  ;  and  see  what  I  myself  saw, 
but  could  only  hint  at.  Well,  the  romance  is  a  suc¬ 
cess,  even  if  it  never  finds  another  reader.” 


PREFACE. 


It  is  now  seven  or  eight  years  (so  many,  at  all 
events,  that  I  cannot  precisely  remember  the  epoch) 
since  the  author  of  this  romance  last  appeared  before 
the  Public.  It  had  grown  to  be  a  custom  with  him 
to  introduce  each  of  his  humble  publications  with  a 
familiar  kind  of  preface,  addressed  nominally  to  the 
Public  at  large,  but  really  to  a  character  with  whom 
he  felt  entitled  to  use  far  greater  freedom.  He  meant 
it  for  that  one  congenial  friend,  — more  comprehensive 
of  his  purposes,  more  appreciative  of  his  success,  more 
indulgent  of  his  shortcomings,  and,  in  all  respects, 
closer  and  kinder  than  a  brother,  —  that  all-sympa¬ 
thizing  critic,  in  short,  whom  an  author  never  actually 
meets,  but  to  whom  he  implicitly  makes  his  appeal 
whenever  he  is  conscious  of  having  done  his  best. 

The  antique  fashion  of  Prefaces  recognized  this 
genial  personage  as  the  44  Kind  Header,”  the  44  Gentle 
Reader,”  the  44  Beloved,”  the  44  Indulgent,”  or,  at  cold¬ 
est,  the  44  Honored  Reader,”  to  whom  the  prim  old 
author  was  wont  to  make  his  preliminary  explanations 
and  apologies,  with  the  certainty  that  they  would  be  fa¬ 
vorably  received-  I  never  personally  encountered,  nor 
corresponded  through  the  post  with  this  representative 
essence  of  all  delightful  and  desirable  qualities  which 
a  reader  can  possess.  But,  fortunately  for  myself,  I 
never  therefore  concluded  him  to  be  merely  a  mythic 


14 


PREFA  CE. 


character.  I  had  always  a  sturdy  faith  in  his  actual 
existence,  and  wrote  for  him  year  after  year,  during 
which  the  great  eye  of  the  Public  (as  well  it  might) 
almost  utterly  overlooked  my  small  productions. 

Unquestionably,  this  gentle,  kind,  benevolent,  indul¬ 
gent,  and  most  beloved  and  honored  Header  did  once 
exist  for  me,  and  (in  spite  of  the  infinite  chances 
against  a  letter’s  reaching  its  destination  without  a 
definite  address)  duly  received  the  scrolls  which  I 
flung  upon  whatever  wind  was  blowing,  in  the  faith 
that  they  would  find  him  out.  But,  is  he  extant  now  ? 
In  these  many  years,  since  he  last  heard  from  me,  may 
he  not  have  deemed  his  earthly  task  accomplished,  and 
have  withdrawn  to  the  paradise  of  gentle  readers, 
wherever  it  may  be,  to  the  enjoyments  of  which  his 
kindly  charity  on  my  behalf  must  surely  have  entitled 
him  ?  I  have  a  sad  foreboding  that  this  may  be  the 
truth.  The  “  Gentle  Reader,”  in  the  case  of  any  indi¬ 
vidual  author,  is  apt  to  be  extremely  short-lived ;  he 
seldom  outlasts  a  literary  fashion,  and,  except  in  very 
rare  instances,  closes  his  weary  eyes  before  the  writer 
has  half  done  with  him.  If  I  find  him  at  all,  it  will 
probably  be  under  some  mossy  gravestone,  inscribed 
with  a  half -obliterated  name  which  I  shall  never  rec¬ 
ognize. 

Therefore,  I  have  little  heart  or  confidence  (es¬ 
pecially,  writing  as  I  do,  in  a  foreign  land,  and  after 
a  long,  long  absence  from  my  own)  to  presume  upon 
the  existence  of  that  friend  of  friends,  that  unseen 
brother  of  the  soul,  whose  apprehensive  sympathy  has 
so  often  encouraged  me  to  be  egotistical  in  my  pref¬ 
aces,  careless  though  unkindly  eyes  should  skim  over 
what  was  never  meant  for  them.  I  stand  upon  cere¬ 
mony  now  ;  and,  after  stating  a  few  particulars  about 


tMSbej thWnSPWlirm an***. 


PREFACE . 


15 


the  work  which  is  here  offered  to  the  Public,  must 
make  my  most  reverential  bow,  and  retire  behind  the 
curtain. 

This  Romance  was  sketched  out  during  a  residence 
of  considerable  length  in  Italy,  and  has  been  rewritten 
and  prepared  for  the  press  in  England.  The  author 
proposed  to  himself  merely  to  write  a  fanciful  story, 
evolving  a  thoughtful  moral,  and  did  not  purpose  at¬ 
tempting  a  portraiture  of  Italian  manners  and  char¬ 
acter.  He  has  lived  too  long  abroad  not  to  be  aware 
that  a  foreigner  seldom  acquires  that  knowledge  of  a 
country  at  once  flexible  and  profound,  which  may  jus¬ 
tify  him  in  endeavoring  to  idealize  its  traits. 

Italy,  as  the  site  of  his  Romance,  was  chiefly  valu¬ 
able  to  him  as  affording  a  sort  of  poetic  or  fairy  pre¬ 
cinct,  where  actualities  would  not  be  so  terribly  in¬ 
sisted  upon  as  they  are,  and  must  needs  be,  in  Amer¬ 
ica.  No  author,  without  a  trial,  can  conceive  of  the 
difficulty  of  writing  a  romance  about  a  country  where 
there  is  no  shadow,  no  antiquity,  no  mystery,  no  pic¬ 
turesque  and  gloomy  wrong,  nor  anything  but  a  com¬ 
monplace  prosperity,  in  broad  and  simple  daylight,  as 
is  happily  the  case  with  my  dear  native  land.  It  will 
be  very  long,  I  trust,  before  romance-writers  may  find 
congenial  and  easily  handled  themes,  either  in  the  an¬ 
nals  of  our  stalwart  republic,  or  in  any  characteristic 
and  probable  events  of  our  individual  lives.  Ro¬ 
mance  and  poetry,  ivy,  lichens,  and  wall-flowers,  need 
ruin  to  make  them  grow. 

In  rewriting  these  volumes,  the  author  was  some¬ 
what  surprised  to  see  the  extent  to  which  he  had  in¬ 
troduced  descriptions  of  various  Italian  objects,  an¬ 
tique,  pictorial,  and  statuesque.  Yet  these  things  fill 
the  mind  everywhere  in  Italy,  and  especially  in  Rome, 


16 


PREFA  CE. 


and  cannot  easily  be  kept  from  flowing  out  upon  the 
page  when  one  writes  freely,  and  with  self -enjoy¬ 
ment.  And,  again,  while  reproducing  the  book,  on 
the  broad  and  dreary  sands  of  Redcar,  with  the  gray 
German  Ocean  tumbling  in  upon  me,  and  the  north¬ 
ern  blast  always  howling  in  my  ears,  the  complete 
change  of  scene  made  these  Italian  reminiscences 
shine  out  so  vividly  that  I  could  not  find  it  in  my 
heart  to  cancel  them. 

An  act  of  justice  remains  to  be  performed  towards 
two  men  of  genius  with  whose  productions  the  author 
has  allowed  himself  to  use  a  quite  unwarrantable  free¬ 
dom.  Having  imagined  a  sculptor  in  this  Romance, 
it  was  necessary  to  provide  him  with  such  works  in 
marble  as  should  be  in  keeping  with  the  artistic  ability 
which  he  was  supposed  to  possess.  With  this  view, 
the  author  laid  felonious  hands  upon  a  certain  bust  of 
Milton,  and  a  statue  of  a  pearl-diver,  which  he  found 
in  the  studio  of  Mr.  Paul  Akers,  and  secretly  con¬ 
veyed  them  to  the  premises  of  his  imaginary  friend,  in 
the  Via  Frezza.  Not  content  even  with  these  spoils, 
he  committed  a  further  robbery  upon  a  magnificent 
statue  of  Cleopatra,  the  production  of  Mr.  William 
W.  Story,  an  artist  whom  his  country  and  the  world 
will  not  long  fail  to  appreciate.  He  had  thoughts  of 
appropriating,  likewise,  a  certain  door  of  bronze  by 
Mr.  Randolph  Rogers,  representing  the  history  of 
Columbus  in  a  series  of  admirable  bas-reliefs,  but  was 
deterred  by  an  unwillingness  to  meddle  with  public 
property.  Were  he  capable  of  stealing  from  a  lady, 
he  would  certainly  have  made  free  with  Miss  Hos- 
Mer’s  admirable  statue  of  Zenobia. 

He  now  wishes  to  restore  the  above-mentioned  beau¬ 
tiful  pieces  of  sculpture  to  their  proper  owners,  with 


PREFA  CE. 


17 


many  thanks,  and  the  avowal  of  his  sincere  admira¬ 
tion.  What  he  has  said  of  them  in  the  Romance  does 
not  partake  of  the  fiction  in  which  they  are  imbedded, 
but  expresses  his  genuine  opinion,  which,  he  has  little 
doubt,  will  be  found  in  accordance  with  that  of  the 
Public.  It  is,  perhaps,  unnecessary  to  say,  that,  while 
stealing  their  designs,  the  Author  has  not  taken  a 
similar  liberty  with  the  personal  characters  of  either 
of  these  gifted  sculptors ;  his  own  man  of  marble 
being  entirely  imaginary. 

Leamington,  December  15,  1859. 


.. 


THE 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI, 


CHAPTER  I. 

MIRIAM,  HILDA,  KENYON,  DONATELLO. 

Four  individuals,  in  whose  fortunes  we  should  be 
glad  to  interest  the  reader,  happened  to  be  standing 
in  one  of  the  saloons  of  the  sculpture  gallery  in  the 
Capitol  at  Rome.  It  was  that  room  (the  first,  after 
ascending  the  staircase)  in  the  centre  of  which  re¬ 
clines  the  noble  and  most  pathetic  figure  of  the  Dy¬ 
ing  Gladiator,  just  sinking  into  his  death  -  swoon. 
Around  the  walls  stand  the  Antinous,  the  Amazon, 
the  Lycian  Apollo,  the  Juno  ;  all  famous  productions 
of  antique  sculpture,  and  still  shining  in  the  un¬ 
diminished  majesty  and  beauty  of  their  ideal  life,  al¬ 
though  the  marble  that  embodies  them  is  yellow  with 
time,  and  perhaps  corroded  by  the  damp  earth  in 
which  they  lay  buried  for  centuries.  Here,  likewise, 
is  seen  a  symbol  (as  apt  at  this  moment  as  it  was 
two  thousand  years  ago)  of  the  Human  Soul,  with 
its  choice  of  Innocence  or  Evil  close  at  hand,  in  the 
pretty  figure  of  a  child,  clasping  a  dove  to  her  bosom, 
but  assaulted  by  a  snake. 

From  one  of  the  windows  of  this  saloon,  we  may 
see  a  flight  of  broad  stone  steps,  descending  along- 


20 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI . 


side  the  antique  and  massive  foundation  of  the  Capi¬ 
tol,  towards  the  battered  triumphal  arch  of  Septimius 
Severus,  right  below.  Farther  on,  the  eye  skirts  along 
the  edge  of  the  desolate  Forum  (where  Roman  washer¬ 
women  hang  out  their  linen  to  the  sun),  passing  over 
a  shapeless  confusion  of  modern  edifices,  piled  rudely 
up  with  ancient  brick  and  stone,  and  over  the  domes 
of  Christian  churches,  built  on  the  old  pavements  of 
heathen  temples,  and  supported  by  the  very  pillars 
that  once  upheld  them.  At  a  distance  beyond  —  yet 
but  a  little  way,  considering  how  much  history  is 
heaped  into  the  intervening  space  —  rises  the  great 
sweep  of  the  Coliseum,  with  the  blue  sky  brightening 
through  its  upper  tier  of  arches.  Far  off,  the  view 
is  shut  in  by  the  Alban  Mountains,  looking  just  the 
same,  amid  all  this  decay  and  change,  as  when  Rom¬ 
ulus  gazed  thitherward  over  his  half-finished  wall. 

We  glance  hastily  at  these  things,  —  at  this  bright 
sky,  and  those  blue  distant  mountains,  and  at  the 
ruins,  Etruscan,  Roman,  Christian,  venerable  with  a 
threefold  antiquity,  and  at  the  company  of  world-fa¬ 
mous  statues  in  the  saloon,  —  in  the  hope  of  putting 
the  reader  into  that  state  of  feeling  which  is  experi¬ 
enced  oftenest  at  Rome.  It  is  a  vague  sense  of  pon¬ 
derous  remembrances ;  a  perception  of  such  weight 
and  density  in  a  by-gone  life,  of  which  this  spot  was 
the  centre,  that  the  present  moment  is  pressed  down 
or  crowded  out,  and  our  individual  affairs  and  inter¬ 
ests  are  but  half  as  real  here  as  elsewhere.  Viewed 
through  this  medium,  our  narrative  —  into  which  are 
woven  some  airy  and  unsubstantial  threads,  inter¬ 
mixed  with  others,  twisted  out  of  the  commonest  stuff 
of  human  existence  —  may  seem  not  widely  different 
from  the  texture  of  all  our  lives. 


MIRIAM ,  HILDA ,  KENYON ,  DONATELLO.  21 

Side  by  side  with  the  massiveness  of  the  Roman 
Past,  all  matters  that  we  handle  or  dream  of  nowa¬ 
days  look  evanescent  and  visionary  alike. 

It  might  be  that  the  four  persons  whom  we  are 
seeking  to  introduce  were  conscious  of  this  dreamy 
character  of  the  present,  as  compared  with  the  square 
blocks  of  granite  wherewith  the  Romans  built  their 
lives.  Perhaps  it  even  contributed  to  the  fanciful 
merriment  which  was  just  now  their  mood.  When  we 
find  ourselves  fading  into  shadows  and  unrealities,  it 
seems  hardly  worth  while  to  be  sad,  but  rather  to 
laugh  as  gayly  as  we  may,  and  ask  little  reason  where¬ 
fore. 

Of  these  four  friends  of  ours,  three  were  artists,  or 
connected  with  art ;  and,  at  this  moment,  they  had 
been  simultaneously  struck  by  a  resemblance  between 
one  of  the  antique  statues,  a  well-known  masterpiece 
of  Grecian  sculpture,  and  a  young  Italian,  the  fourth 
member  of  their  party. 

“  You  must  needs  confess,  Kenyon,”  said  a  dark¬ 
eyed  young  woman,  whom  her  friends  called  Miriam, 
“  that  you  never  chiselled  out  of  marble,  nor  wrought 
in  clay,  a  more  vivid  likeness  than  this,  cunning  a 
bust-maker  as  you  think  yourself.  The  portraiture 
is  perfect  in  character,  sentiment,  and  feature.  If  it 
were  a  picture,  the  resemblance  might  be  half  illusive 
and  imaginary  ;  but  here,  in  this  Pentelic  marble,  it 
is  a  substantial  fact,  and  may  be  tested  by  absolute 
touch  and  measurement.  Our  friend  Donatello  is  the 
very  Faun  of  Praxiteles.  Is  it  not  true,  Hilda  ?  ” 

“  Not  quite  —  almost  —  yes,  I  really  think  so,”  re« 
plied  Hilda,  a  slender,  brown-haired,  New  England 
girl,  whose  perceptions  of  form  and  expression  were 
wonderfully  clear  and  delicate.  “  If  there  is  any  dif* 


22 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


ference  between  the  two  faces,  the  reason  may  be,  I 
suppose,  that  the  Faun  dwelt  in  woods  and  fields,  and 
consorted  with  his  like  ;  whereas,  Donatello  has  known 
cities  a  little,  and  such  people  as  ourselves.  But  the 
resemblance  is  very  close,  and  very  strange.” 

“  Not  so  strange,”  whispered  Miriam,  mischiev¬ 
ously  ;  “  for  no  Faun  in  Arcadia  was  ever  a  greater 
simpleton  than  Donatello.  He  has  hardly  a  man’s 
share  of  wit,  small  as  that  may  be.  It  is  a  pity  there 
are  no  longer  any  of  this  congenial  race  of  rustic  crea¬ 
tures  for  our  friend  to  consort  with  !  ” 

“  Hush,  naughty  one  !  ”  returned  Hilda.  “  You  are 
very  ungrateful,  for  you  well  know  he  has  wit  enough 
to  worship  you,  at  all  events.” 

“  Then  the  greater  fool  he  !  ”  said  Miriam,  so  bit¬ 
terly  that  Hilda’s  quiet  eyes  were  somewhat  startled. 

“  Donatello,  my  dear  friend,”  said  Kenyon,  in  Ital¬ 
ian,  “  pray  gratify  us  all  by  taking  the  exact  attitude 
of  this  statue.” 

The  young  man  laughed,  and  threw  himself  into  the 
position  in  which  the  statue  has  been  standing  for  two 
or  three  thousand  years.  In  truth,  allowing  for  the 
difference  of  costume,  and  if  a  lion’s  skin  could  have 
been  substituted  for  his  modern  talma,  and  a  rustic 
pipe  for  his  stick,  Donatello  might  have  figured  per¬ 
fectly  as  the  marble  Faun,  miraculously  softened  into 
flesh  and  blood. 

“  Yes ;  the  resemblance  is  wonderful,”  observed 
Kenyon,  after  examining  the  marble  and  the  man 
with  the  accuracy  of  a  sculptor’s  eye.  “  There  is  one 
point,  however,  or,  rather,  two  points,  in  respect  to 
which  our  friend  Donatello’s  abundant  curls  will  not 
permit  us  to  say  whether  the  likeness  is  carried  into 
minute  detail.” 


MIRIAM,  HILDA,  KENYON ,  DONATELLO.  23 

And  the  sculptor  directed  the  attention  of  the  party 
to  the  ears  of  the  beautiful  statue  which  they  were  con¬ 
templating. 

But  we  must  do  more  than  merely  refer  to  this  ex¬ 
quisite  work  of  art ;  it  must  be  described,  however 
inadequate  may  be  the  effort  to  express  its  magic  pe¬ 
culiarity  in  words. 

The  Faun  is  the  marble  image  of  a  young  man, 
leaning  his  right  arm  on  the  trunk  or  stump  of  a  tree ; 
one  hand  hangs  carelessly  by  his  side ;  in  the  other  he 
holds  the  fragment  of  a  pipe,  or  some  such  sylvan  in¬ 
strument  of  music.  His  only  garment  —  a  lion’s  skin, 
with  the  claws  upon  his  shoulder  —  falls  half  -  way 
down  his  back,  leaving  the  limbs  and  entire  front  of 
the  figure  nude.  The  form,  thus  displayed,  is  mar¬ 
vellously  graceful,  but  has  a  fuller  and  more  rounded 
outline,  more  flesh,  and  less  of  heroic  muscle,  than 
the  old  sculptors  were  wont  to  assign  to  their  types 
of  masculine  beauty.  The  character  of  the  face  corre¬ 
sponds  with  the  figure ;  it  is  most  agreeable  in  outline 
and  feature,  but  rounded  and  somewhat  voluptuously 
developed,  especially  about  the  throat  and  chin ;  the 
nose  is  almost  straight,  but  very  slightly  curves  in¬ 
ward,  thereby  acquiring  an  indescribable  charm  of 
geniality  and  humor.  The  mouth,  with  its  full  yet 
delicate  lips,  seems  so  nearly  to  smile  outright,  that 
it  calls  forth  a  responsive  smile.  The  whole  statue 
—  unlike  anything  else  that  ever  was  wrought  in  that 
severe  material  of  marble  —  conveys  the  idea  of  an 
amiable  and  sensual  creature,  easy,  mirthful,  apt  for 
jollity,  yet  not  incapable  of  being  touched  by  pathos. 
It  is  impossible  to  gaze  long  at  this  stone  image  with¬ 
out  conceiving  a  kindly  sentiment  towards  it,  as  if  its 
substance  were  warm  to  the  touch,  and  imbued  with 


24 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


actual  life.  It  comes  very  close  to  some  of  our  pleas¬ 
antest  sympathies. 

Perhaps  it  is  the  very  lack  of  moral  severity,  of  any 
high  and  heroic  ingredient  in  the  character  of  the 
Faun,  that  makes  it  so  delightful  an  object  to  the  hu¬ 
man  eye  and  to  the  frailty  of  the  human  heart.  The 
being  here  represented  is  endowed  with  no  principle 
of  virtue,  and  would  be  incapable  of  comprehending 
such  ;  but  he  would  be  true  and  honest  by  dint  of  his 
simplicity.  We  should  expect  from  him  no  sacrifice 
or  effort  for  an  abstract  cause  ;  there  is  not  an  atom 
of  martyr’s  stuff  in  all  that  softened  marble  ;  but  he 
has  a  capacity  for  strong  and  warm  attachment,  and 
might  act  devotedly  through  its  impulse,  and  even  die 
for  it  at  need.  It  is  possible,  too,  that  the  Faun  might 
be  educated  through  the  medium  of  his  emotions,  so 
that  the  coarser  animal  portion  of  his  nature  might 
eventually  be  thrown  into  the  background,  though 
never  utterly  expelled. 

The  animal  nature,  indeed,  is  a  most  essential  part 
of  the  Faun’s  composition  ;  for  the  characteristics  of 
the  brute  creation  meet  and  combine  with  those  of  hu¬ 
manity  in  this  strange  yet  true  and  natural  conception 
of  antique  poetry  and  art.  Praxiteles  has  subtly  dif¬ 
fused  throughout  his  work  that  mute  mystery  which 
so  hopelessly  perplexes  us  whenever  we  attempt  to 
gain  an  intellectual  or  sympathetic  knowledge  of  the 
lower  orders  of  creation.  The  riddle  is  indicated, 
however,  only  by  two  definite  signs ;  these  are  the  two 
ears  of  the  Faun,  which  are  leaf-shaped,  terminating 
in  little  peaks,  like  those  of  some  species  of  animals. 
Though  not  so  seen  in  the  marble,  they  are  probably 
to  be  considered  as  clothed  in  fine,  downy  fur.  In 
the  coarser  representations  of  this  class  of  mytholog 


MIRIAM ,  HILDA ,  KENYON,  DONATELLO.  25 

ical  creatures,  there  is  another  token  of  brute  kindred, 
—  a  certain  caudal  appendage ;  which,  if  the  Faun  of 
Praxiteles  must  be  supposed  to  possess  it  at  all,  is  hid¬ 
den  by  the  lion’s  skin  that  forms  his  garment.  The 
pointed  and  furry  ears,  therefore,  are  the  sole  indica¬ 
tions  of  his  wild,  forest  nature. 

Only  a  sculptor  of  the  finest  imagination,  the  most 
delicate  taste,  the  sweetest  feeling,  and  the  rarest  ar¬ 
tistic  skill  —  in  a  word,  a  sculptor  and  a  poet  too  — 
could  have  first  dreamed  of  a  Faun  in  this  guise,  and 
then  have  succeeded  in  imprisoning  the  sportive  and 
frisky  thing  in  marble.  Neither  man  nor  animal,  and 
yet  no  monster,  but  a  being  in  whom  both  races  meet 
on  friendly  ground.  The  idea  grows  coarse  as  we 
handle  it,  and  hardens  in  our  grasp.  But,  if  the  spec¬ 
tator  broods  long  over  the  statue,  he  will  be  conscious 
of  its  spell ;  all  the  pleasantness  of  sylvan  life,  all 
the  genial  and  happy  characteristics  of  creatures  that 
dwell  in  woods  and  fields,  will  seem  to  be  mingled  and 
kneaded  into  one  substance,  along  with  the  kindred 
qualities  in  the  human  soul.  Trees,  grass,  flowers, 
woodland  streamlets,  cattle,  deer,  and  unsophisticated 
man.  The  essence  of  all  these  was  compressed  long 
ago,  and  still  exists,  within  that  discolored  marble  sur¬ 
face  of  the  Faun  of  Praxiteles. 

And,  after  all,  the.  idea  may  have  been  no  dream, 
but  rather  a  poet’s  reminiscence  of  a  period  when 
man’s  affinity  with  nature  was  more  strict,  and  his  fel¬ 
lowship  with  every  living  thing  more  intimate  and 
dear. 


CHAPTER  n. 


THE  FAUN. 

“Donatello,”  playfully  cried  Miriam,  “do  not 
leave  us  in  this  perplexity  !  Shake  aside  those  brown 
curls,  my  friend,  and  let  us  see  whether  this  marvel¬ 
lous  resemblance  extends  to  the  very  tips  of  the  ears. 
If  so,  we  shall  like  you  all  the  better !  ” 

“  No,  no,  dearest  signorina,”  answered  Donatello, 
laughing,  but  with  a  certain  earnestness.  “  I  entreat 
you  to  take  the  tips  of  my  ears  for  granted.”  As  he 
spoke,  the  young  Italian  made  a  skip  and  jump,  light 
enough  for  a  veritable  faun ;  so  as  to  place  himself 
quite  beyond  the  reach  of  the  fair  hand  that  was  out¬ 
stretched,  as  if  to  settle  the  matter  by  actual  exami¬ 
nation.  “  I  shall  be  like  a  wolf  of  the  Apennines,”  he 
continued,  taking  his  stand  on  the  other  side  of  the 
Dying  Gladiator,  “  if  you  touch  my  ears  ever  so  softly. 
None  of  my  race  could  endure  it.  It  has  always  been 
a  tender  point  with  my  forefathers  and  me.” 

He  spoke  in  Italian,  with  the  Tuscan  rusticity  of 
accent,  and  an  unshaped  sort  of  utterance,  betokening 
that  he  must  heretofore  have  been  chiefly  conversant 
with  rural  people. 

“Well,  well,”  said  Miriam,  “your  tender  point  — 
your  two  tender  points,  if  you  have  them  —  shall  be 
safe,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned.  But  how  strange  this 
likeness  is,  after  all !  and  how  delightful,  if  it  really 
includes  the  pointed  ears  !  Oh.  it  is  impossible,  of 


THE  FAUN. 


27 


course,”  she  continued,  in  English,  “  with  a  real  and 
commonplace  young  man  like  Donatello ;  but  you  see 
how  this  peculiarity  defines  the  position  of  the  Faun  : 
and,  while  putting  him  where  he  cannot  exactly  assert 
his  brotherhood,  still  disposes  us  kindly  towards  the 
kindred  creature.  He  is  not  supernatural,  but  just  on 
the  verge  of  nature,  and  yet  within  it.  What  is  the 
nameless  charm  of  this  idea,  Hilda?  You  can  feel  it 
more  delicately  than  I.” 

“  It  perplexes  me,”  said  Hilda,  thoughtfully,  and 
shrinking  a  little  ;  “  neither  do  I  quite  like  to  think 
about  it.” 

“But,  surely,”  said  Kenyon,  “you  agree  with  Miriam 
and  me  that  there  is  something  very  touching  and  im¬ 
pressive  in  this  statue  of  the  Faun.  In  some  long-past 
age,  he  must  really  ha  ve  existed.  Nature  needed,  and 
still  needs,  this  beautiful  creature  ;  standing  betwixt 
man  and  animal,  sympathizing  with  each,  comprehend¬ 
ing  the  speech  of  either  race,  and  interpreting  the 
whole  existence  of  one  to  the  other.  What  a  pity 
that  he  has  forever  vanished  from  the  hard  and  dusty 
paths  of  life,  —  unless,”  added  the  sculptor,  in  a  sport¬ 
ive  whisper,  “  Donatello  be  actually  he  !  ” 

“  You  cannot  conceive  how  this  fantasy  takes  hold 
of  me,”  responded  Miriam,  between  jest  and  earnest. 
“  Imagine,  now,  a  real  being,  similar  to  this  mythic 
Faun  ;  how  happy,  how  genial,  how  satisfactory  would 
be  his  life,  enjoying  the  warm,  sensuous,  earthy  side 
of  nature  ;  revelling  in  the  merriment  of  woods  and 
streams  ;  living  as  our  four-footed  kindred  do,  — -  as 
mankind  did  in  its  innocent  childhood  ;  before  sin, 
sorrow  or  morality  itself  had  ever  been  thought  of! 
Ah  !  Kenyon,  if  Hilda  and  you  and  I  —  if  I,  at  least 
—  had  pointed  ears !  For  I  suppose  the  Faun  had  no 


28 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENE 


conscience,  no  remorse,  no  burden  on  the  heart,  no 
troublesome  recollections  of  any  sort ;  no  dark  future 
either.” 

“  What  a  tragic  tone  was  that  last,  Miriam  !  ”  said 
the  sculptor ;  and,  looking  into  her  face,  he  was  star¬ 
tled  to  behold  it  pale  and  tear-stained.  “  How  sud¬ 
denly  this  mood  has  come  over  you  !  ” 

“  Let  it  go  as  it  came,”  said  Miriam,  “  like  a  thun¬ 
der-shower  in  this  Homan  sky.  All  is  sunshine  again, 
you  see  !  ” 

Donatello’s  refractoriness  as  regarded  his  ears  had 
evidently  cost  him  something,  and  he  now  came  close 
to  Miriam’s  side,  gazing  at  her  with  an  appealing  air, 
as  if  to  solicit  forgiveness.  His  mute,  helpless  ges¬ 
ture  of  entreaty  had  something  pathetic  in  it,  and  yet 
might  well  enough  excite  a  laugh,  so  like  it  was  to 
what  you  may  see  in  the  aspect  of  a  hound  when  he 
thinks  himself  in  fault  or  disgrace.  It  was  difficult 
to  make  out  the  character  of  this  young  man.  So  full 
of  animal  life  as  he  was,  so  joyous  in  his  deportment, 
so  handsome,  so  physically  well-developed,  he  made  no 
impression  of  incompleteness,  of  maimed  or  stinted 
nature.  And  yet,  in  social  intercourse,  these  familiar 
friends  of  his  habitually  and  instinctively  allowed  for 
him,  as  for  a  child  or  some  other  lawless  thing,  ex¬ 
acting  no  strict  obedience  to  conventional  rules,  and 
hardly  noticing  his  eccentricities  enough  to  pardon 
them.  There  was  an  indefinable  characteristic  about 
Donatello  that  set  him  outside  of  rules. 

He  caught  Miriam’s  hand,  kissed  it,  and  gazed  into 
her  eyes  without  saying  a  word.  She  smiled,  and  be¬ 
stowed  on  him  a  little  careless  caress,  singularly  like 
what  one  would  give  to  a  pet  dog  when  he  puts  him¬ 
self  in  the  way  to  receive  it.  Not  that  it  was  so  de- 


THE  FAUN. 


29 


cided  a  caress  either,  but  only  the  merest  touch,  some¬ 
where  between  a  pat  and  a  tap  of  the  finger  ;  it  might 
be  a  mark  of  fondness,  or  perhaps  a  playful  pretence 
of  punishment.  At  all  events,  it  appeared  to  afford 
Donatello  exquisite  pleasure  ;  insomuch  that  he  danced 
quite  round  the  wooden  railing  that  fences  in  the  Dy¬ 
ing  Gladiator. 

“  It  is  the  very  step  of  the  Dancing  Faun,”  said 
Miriam,  apart,  to  Hilda.  “  What  a  child,  or  what  a 
simpleton,  he  is !  I  continually  find  myself  treating 
Donatello  as  if  he  were  the  merest  unfledged  chicken ; 
and  yet  he  can  claim  no  such  privileges  in  the  right  of 
his  tender  age,  for  he  is  at  least  —  how  old  should 
you  think  him,  Hilda  ?  ” 

“Twenty  years,  perhaps,”  replied  Hilda,  glancing 
at  Donatello  ;  “  but,  indeed,  I  cannot  tell ;  hardly  so 
old,  on  second  thoughts,  or  possibly  older.  He  has 
nothing  to  do  with  time,  but  has  a  look  of  eternal 
youth  in  his  face.” 

“  All  underwitted  people  have  that  look,”  said  Mir¬ 
iam,  scornfully. 

“  Donatello  has  certainly  the  gift  of  eternal  youth, 
as  Hilda  suggests,”  observed  Kenyon,  laughing ;  “  for, 
judging  by  the  date  of  this  statue,  which,  I  am  more 
and  more  convinced,  Praxiteles  carved  on  purpose  for 
him,  he  must  be  at  least  twenty-five  centuries  old,  and 
he  still  looks  as  young  as  ever.” 

“  What  age  have  you,  Donatello  ?  ”  asked  Miriam. 

“ Signorina,  I  do  not  know,”  he  answered;  “no 
great  age,  however  ;  for  I  have  only  lived  since  I  met 
you.” 

“  Now,  what  old  man  of  society  could  have  turned  a 
silly  compliment  more  smartly  than  that !  ”  exclaimed 
Miriam.  “  Nature  and  art  are  just  at  one  sometimes. 


30 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


But  what  a  happy  ignorance  is  this  of  our  friend  Do¬ 
natello  !  Not  to  know  his  own  age  !  It  is  equivalent 
to  being  immortal  on  earth.  If  I  could  only  forget 
mine !  ” 

“  It  is  too  soon  to  wish  that,”  observed  the  sculptor ; 
“  you  are  scarcely  older  than  Donatello  looks.” 

“  I  shall  be  content,  then,”  rejoined  Miriam,  “  if  I 
could  only  forget  one  day  of  all  my  life.”  Then  she 
seemed  to  repent  of  this  allusion,  and  hastily  added, 
“  A  woman's  days  are  so  tedious  that  it  is  a  boon  to 
leave  even  one  of  them  out  of  the  account.” 

The  foregoing  conversation  had  been  carried  on  in 
a  mood  in  which  all  imaginative  people,  whether  ar¬ 
tists  or  poets,  love  to  indulge.  In  this  frame  of  mind, 
they  sometimes  find  their  profoundest  truths  side  by 
side  with  the  idlest  jest,  and  utter  one  or  the  other, 
apparently  without  distinguishing  which  is  the  most 
valuable,  or  assigning  any  considerable  value  to  either. 
The  resemblance  between  the  marble  Faun  and  their 
living  companion  had  made  a  deep,  half-serious,  half¬ 
mirthful  impression  on  these  three  friends,  and  had 
taken  them  into  a  certain  airy  region,  lifting  up,  as  it 
is  so  pleasant  to  feel  them  lifted,  their  heavy  earthly 
feet  from  the  actual  soil  of  life.  The  world  had  been 
set  afloat,  as  it  were,  for  a  moment,  and  relieved  them, 
for  just  so  long,  of  all  customary  responsibility  for 
what  they  thought  and  said. 

It  might  be  under  this  influence  —  or,  perhaps, 
because  sculptors  always  abuse  one  another’s  works 
—  that  Kenyon  threw  in  a  criticism  upon  the  Dying 
Gladiator. 

“  I  used  to  admire  this  statue  exceedingly,”  he  re¬ 
marked,  “but,  latterly,  I  find  myself  getting  weary 
and  annoyed  that  the  man  should  be  such  a  length  of 


THE  FAUN. 


31 


time  leaning  on  his  arm  in  the  very  act  of  death.  If 
he  is  so  terribly  hurt,  why  does  he  not  sink  down  and 
die  without  further  ado  ?  Flitting  moments,  immi¬ 
nent  emergencies,  imperceptible  intervals  between  two 
breaths,  ought  not  to  be  incrusted  with  the  eternal  re¬ 
pose  of  marble ;  in  any  sculptural  subject,  there  should 
be  a  moral  stand-still,  since  there  must  of  necessity  be 
a  physical  one.  Otherwise,  it  is  like  flinging  a  block 
of  marble  up  into  the  air,  and,  by  some  trick  of  en¬ 
chantment,  causing  it  to  stick  there.  You  feel  that  it 
ought  to  come  down,  and  are  dissatisfied  that  it  does 
not  obey  the  natural  law.” 

“  I  see,”  said  Miriam,  mischievously,  “  you  think 
that  sculpture  should  be  a  sort  of  fossilizing  process. 
But,  in  truth,  your  frozen  art  has  nothing  like  the 
scope  and  freedom  of  Hilda’s  and  mine.  In  painting 
there  is  no  similar  objection  to  the  representation  of 
brief  snatches  of  time ;  perhaps,  because  a  story  can 
be  so  much  more  fully  told  in  picture,  and  buttressed 
about  with  circumstances  that  give  it  an  epoch.  For 
instance,  a  painter  never  would  have  sent  down  yon¬ 
der  Faun  out  of  his  far  antiquity,  lonely  and  desolate, 
with  no  companion  to  keep  his  simple  heart  warm.” 

“  Ah,  the  Faun  !  ”  cried  Hilda,  with  a  little  gesture 
of  impatience  ;  “  I  have  been  looking  at  him  too  long ; 
and  now,  instead  of  a  beautiful  statue,  immortally 
young,  I  see  only  a  corroded  and  discolored  stone. 
This  change  is  very  apt  to  occur  in  statues.” 

“And  a  similar  one  in  pictures,  surely,”  retorted 
the  sculptor.  “  It  is  the  spectator’s  mood  that  trans¬ 
figures  the  Transfiguration  itself.  I  defy  any  painter 
to  move  and  elevate  me  without  my  own  consent  and 
assistance.” 

“  Then  you  are  deficient  of  a  sense,”  said  Miriam. 


32 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


The  party  now  strayed  onward  from  hall  to  hall  of 
that  rich  gallery,  pausing  here  and  there,  to  look  at 
the  multitude  of  noble  and  lovely  shapes,  which  have 
been  dug  up  out  of  the  deep  grave  in  which  old  Rome 
lies  buried.  And  still,  the  realization  of  the  antique 
Faun,  in  the  person  of  Donatello,  gave  a  more  vivid 
character  to  all  these  marble  ghosts.  Why  should  not 
each  statue  grow  warm  with  life !  Antinous  might 
lift  his  brow,  and  tell  us  why  he  is  forever  sad.  The 
Lycian  Apollo  might  strike  his  lyre  ;  and,  at  the  first 
vibration,  that  other  Faun  in  red  marble,  who  keeps 
up  a  motionless  dance,  should  frisk  gayly  forth,  lead¬ 
ing  yonder  Satyrs,  with  shaggy  goat-shanks,  to  clatter 
their  little  hoofs  upon  the  floor,  and  all  join  hands 
with  Donatello !  Bacchus,  too,  a  rosy  flush  diffusing 
itself  over  his  time-stained  surface,  could  come  down 
from  his  pedestal,  and  offer  a  cluster  of  purple  grapes 
to  Donatello’s  lips ;  because  the  god  recognizes  him 
as  the  woodland  elf  who  so  often  shared  his  revels. 
And  here,  in  this  sarcophagus,  the  exquisitely  carved 
figures  might  assume  life,  and  chase  one  another 
round  its  verge  with  that  wild  merriment  which  is 
so  strangely  represented  on  those  old  burial  coffers  : 
though  still  with  some  subtile  allusion  to  death,  care¬ 
fully  veiled,  but  forever  peeping  forth  amid  emblems 
of  mirth  and  riot. 

As  the  four  friends  descended  the  stairs,  however, 
their  play  of  fancy  subsided  into  a  much  more  som¬ 
bre  mood ;  a  result  apt  to  follow  upon  such  exhilara¬ 
tion  as  that  which  had  so  recently  taken  possession  of 
them. 

“  Do  you  know,”  said  Miriam,  confidentially  to 
Hilda,  “  I  doubt  the  reality  of  this  likeness  of  Dona¬ 
tello  to  the  Faun,  which  we  have  been  talking  so  much 


THE  FAUN. 


33 


about  ?  To  say  the  truth,  it  never  struck  me  so  forci¬ 
bly  as  it  did  Kenyon  and  yourself,  though  I  gave  in  to 
whatever  you  were  pleased  to  fancy,  for  the  sake  of  a 
moment’s  mirth  and  wonder.” 

“  I  was  certainly  in  earnest,  and  you  seemed  equally 
so,”  replied  Hilda,  glancing  back  at  Donatello,  as  if 
to  reassure  herself  of  the  resemblance.  44  But  faces 
change  so  much,  from  hour  to  hour,  that  the  same  set 
of  features  has  often  no  keeping  with  itself ;  to  an 
eye,  at  least,  which  looks  at  expression  more  than 
outline.  How  sad  and  sombre  he  has  grown  all  of  a 
sudden !  ” 

44  Angry  too,  methinks  !  nay,  it  is  anger  much  more 
than  sadness,”  said  Miriam.  44 1  have  seen  Donatello 
in  this  mood  once  or  twice  before.  If  you  consider 
him  well,  you  will  observe  an  odd  mixture  of  the  bull¬ 
dog,  or  some  other  equally  fierce  brute,  in  our  friend’s 
composition  ;  a  trait  of  savageness  hardly  to  be  ex¬ 
pected  in  such  a  gentle  creature  as  he  usually  is. 
Donatello  is  a  very  strange  young  man.  I  wish  he 
would  not  haunt  my  footsteps  so  continually.” 

44  You  have  bewitched  the  poor  lad,”  said  the  sculp¬ 
tor,  laughing.  44  You  have  a  faculty  of  bewitching 
people,  and  it  is  providing  you  with  a  singular  train 
of  followers.  I  see  another  of  them  behind  yonder 
pillar ;  and  it  is  his  presence  that  has  aroused  Dona¬ 
tello’s  wrath.” 

They  had  now  emerged  from  the  gateway  of  the  pal¬ 
ace  ;  and  partly  concealed  by  one  of  the  pillars  of  the 
portico  stood  a  figure  such  as  may  often  be  encoun¬ 
tered  in  the  streets  and  piazzas  of  Borne,  and  nowhere 
else.  He  looked  as  if  he  might  just  have  stepped  out 
of  a  picture,  and,  in  truth,  was  likely  enough  to  find 
his  way  into  a  dozen  pictures ;  being  no  other  than  one 

VOL.  VI. 


34 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENE 


of  those  living  models,  dark,  bushy-bearded,  wild  of 
aspect  and  attire,  whom  artists  convert  into  saints  or 
assassins,  according  as  their  pictorial  purposes  de¬ 
mand. 

“  Miriam,”  whispered  Hilda,  a  little  startled,  “  it  is 
your  model !  ” 


CHAPTER  III. 


SUBTERRANEAN  REMINISCENCES. 

Miriam’s  model  has  so  important  a  connection  with 
our  story,  that  it  is  essential  to  describe  the  singular 
mode  of  his  first  appearance,  and  how  he  subsequently 
became  a  self-appointed  follower  of  the  young  female 
artist.  In  the  first  place,  however,  we  must  devote  a 
page  or  two  to  certain  peculiarities  in  the  position  of 
Miriam  herself. 

There  was  an  ambiguity  about  this  young  lady, 
which,  though  it  did  not  necessarily  imply  anything 
wrong,  would  have  operated  unfavorably  as  regarded 
her  reception  in  society,  anywhere  but  in  Rome.  The 
truth  was,  that  nobody  knew  anything  about  Miriam, 
either  for  good  or  evil.  She  had  made  her  appear¬ 
ance  without  introduction,  had  taken  a  studio,  put  her 
card  upon  the  door,  and  showed  very  considerable  tal¬ 
ent  as  a  painter  in  oils.  Her  fellow-professors  of  the 
brush,  it  is  true,  showered  abundant  criticisms  upon 
her  pictures,  allowing  them  to  be  well  enough  for  the 
idle  half-efforts  of  an  amateur,  but  lacking  both  the 
trained  skill  and  the  practice  that  distinguish  the 
works  of  a  true  artist. 

Nevertheless,  be  their  faults  what  they  might,  Mir¬ 
iam’s  pictures  met  with  good  acceptance  among  the 
patrons  of  modern  art.  Whatever  technical  merit 
they  lacked,  its  absence  was  more  than  supplied  by  a 
warmth  and  passionateness,  which  she  had  the  faculty 


86 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


of  putting  into  her  productions,  and  which  all  the 
world  could  feel.  Her  nature  had  a  great  deal  of 
color,  and,  in  accordance  with  it,  so  likewise  had  her 
pictures. 

Miriam  had  great  apparent  freedom  of  intercourse ; 
her  manners  were  so  far  from  evincing  shyness,  that 
it  seemed  easy  to  become  acquainted  with  her,  and  not 
difficult  to  develop  a  casual  acquaintance  into  intimacy. 
Such,  at  least,  was  the  impression  which  she  made, 
upon  brief  contact,  but  not  such  the  ultimate  conclu¬ 
sion  of  those  who  really  sought  to  know  her.  So  airy, 
free,  and  affable  was  Miriam’s  deportment  towards  all 
who  came  within  her  sphere,  that  possibly  they  might 
never  be  conscious  of  the  fact ;  but  so  it  was,  that 
they  did  not  get  on,  and  were  seldom  any  further  ad¬ 
vanced  into  her  good  graces  to-day  than  yesterday. 
By  some  subtile  quality,  she  kept  people  at  a  distance, 
without  so  much  as  letting  them  know  that  they  were 
excluded  from  her  inner  circle.  She  resembled  one  of 
those  images  of  light,  which  conjurers  evoke  and  cause 
to  shine  before  us,  in  apparent  tangibility,  only  an 
arm’s-length  beyond  our  grasp :  we  make  a  step  in  ad¬ 
vance,  expecting  to  seize  the  illusion,  but  find  it  still 
precisely  so  far  out  of  our  reach.  Finally,  society  be¬ 
gan  to  recognize  the  impossibility  of  getting  nearer  to 
Miriam,  and  gruffly  acquiesced. 

There  were  two  persons,  however,  whom  she  ap¬ 
peared  to  acknowledge  as  friends  in  the  closer  and 
truer  sense  of  the  word;  and  both  of  these  more  fa¬ 
vored  individuals  did  credit  to  Miriam’s  selection. 
One  was  a  young  American  sculptor,  of  high  promise 
and  rapidly  increasing  celebrity  ;  the  other,  a  girl  of 
the  same  country,  a  painter  like  Miriam  herself,  but 
in  a  widely  different  sphere  of  art.  Her  heart  flowed 


SUBTERRANEAN  REMINISCENCES.  37 


out  towards  these  two  ;  she  requited  herself  by  their 
society  and  friendship  (and  especially  by  Hilda’s) 
for  all  the  loneliness  with  which,  as  regarded  the  rest 
of  the  world,  she  chose  to  be  surrounded.  Her  two 
friends  were  conscious  of  the  strong,  yearning  grasp 
which  Miriam  laid  upon  them,  and  gave  her  their 
affection  in  full  measure  ;  Hilda,  indeed,  responding 
with  the  fervency  of  a  girl’s  first  friendship,  and  Ken¬ 
yon  with  a  manly  regard,  in  which  there  was  nothing 
akin  to  what  is  distinctively  called  love. 

A  sort  of  intimacy  subsequently  grew  up  between 
these  three  friends  and  a  fourth  individual ;  it  was  a 
young  Italian,  who,  casually  visiting  Rome,  had  been 
attracted  by  the  beauty  which  Miriam  possessed  in  a 
remarkable  degree.  He  had  sought  her,  followed  her, 
and  insisted,  with  simple  perseverance,  upon  being  ad¬ 
mitted  at  least  to  her  acquaintance ;  a  boon  which  had 
been  granted,  when  a  more  artful  character,  seeking  it 
by  a  more  subtle  mode  of  pursuit,  would  probably  have 
failed  to  obtain  it.  This  young  man,  though  anything 
but  intellectually  brilliant,  had  many  agreeable  char¬ 
acteristics  which  won  him  the  kindly  and  half-contemp¬ 
tuous  regard  of  Miriam  and  her  two  friends.  It  was 
he  whom  they  called  Donatello,  and  whose  wonderful 
resemblance  to  the  Faun  of  Praxiteles  forms  the  key¬ 
note  of  our  narrative. 

Such  was  the  position  in  which  we  find  Miriam 
some  few  months  after  her  establishment  at  Rome.  It 
must  be  added,  however,  that  the  world  did  not  per¬ 
mit  her  to  hide  her  antecedents  without  making;  her 
the  subject  of  a  good  deal  of  conjecture  ;  as  was  nat¬ 
ural  enough,  considering  the  abundance  of  her  per¬ 
sonal  charms,  and  the  degree  of  notice  that  she  at¬ 
tracted  as  an  artist.  There  were  many  stories  about 


38 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


Miriam’s  origin  and  previous  life,  some  of  which  had 
a  very  probable  air,  while  others  were  evidently  wild 
and  romantic  fables.  We  cite  a  few,  leaving  the 
reader  to  designate  them  either  under  the  probable  or 
the  romantic  head. 

It  was  said,  for  example,  that  Miriam  was  the 
daughter  and  heiress  of  a  great  Jewish  banker  (an 
idea  perhaps  suggested  by  a  certain  rich  Oriental 
character  in  her  face),  and  had  fled  from  her  pater¬ 
nal  home  to  escape  a  union  with  a  cousin,  the  heir  of 
another  of  that  golden  brotherhood ;  the  object  being, 
to  retain  their  vast  accumulation  of  wealth  within  the 
family.  Another  story  hinted  that  she  was  a  German 
princess,  whom,  for  reasons  of  state,  it  wTas  proposed 
to  give  in  marriage  either  to  a  decrepit  sovereign,  or  a 
prince  still  in  his  cradle.  According  to  a  third  state¬ 
ment,  she  was  the  offspring  of  a  Southern  American 
planter,  who  had  given  her  an  elaborate  education  and 
endowed  her  with  his  wealth ;  but  the  one  burning 
drop  of  African  blood  in  her  veins  so  affected  her  with 
a  sense  of  ignominy,  that  she  relinquished  all  and  fled 
her  country.  By  still  another  account  she  was  the 
lady  of  an  English  nobleman  ;  and,  out  of  mere  love 
and  honor  of  art,  had  thrown  aside  the  splendor  of  her 
rank,  and  come  to  seek  a  subsistence  by  her  pencil  in 
a  Homan  studio. 

In  all  the  above  cases,  the  fable  seemed  to  be  in¬ 
stigated  by  the  large  and  bounteous  impression  which 
Miriam  invariably  made,  as  if  necessity  and  she  could 
have  nothing  to  do  with  one  another.  Whatever  de¬ 
privations  she  underwent  must  needs  be  voluntary. 
But  there  were  other  surmises,  taking  such  a  common¬ 
place  view  as  that  Miriam  was  the  daughter  of  a  mer 
chant  or  financier,  who  had  been  ruined  in  a  great 


SUBTERRANEAN  REMINISCENCES.  39 

commercial  crisis  ;  and,  possessing  a  taste  for  art,  she 
had  attempted  to  support  herself  by  the  pencil,  in  pref¬ 
erence  to  the  alternative  of  going  out  as  governess. 

Be  these  things  how  they  might,  Miriam,  fair  as  she 
looked,  was  plucked  up  out  of  a  mystery,  and  had  its 
roots  still  clinging  to  her.  She  was  a  beautiful  and 
attractive  woman,  but  based,  as  it  were,  upon  a  cloud, 
and  all  surrounded  with  misty  substance ;  so  that  the 
result  was  to  render  her  sprite-like  in  her  most  ordi¬ 
nary  manifestations.  This  was  the  case  even  in  respect 
to  Kenyon  and  Hilda,  her  especial  friends.  But  such 
was  the  effect  of  Miriam’s  natural  language,  her  gen¬ 
erosity,  kindliness,  and  native  truth  of  character,  that 
these  two  received  her  as  a  dear  friend  into  their 
hearts,  taking  her  good  qualities  as  evident  and  genu¬ 
ine,  and  never  imagining  that  what  was  hidden  must 
be  therefore  evil. 

We  now  proceed  with  our  narrative. 

The  same  party  of  friends,  whom  we  have  seen  at 
the  sculpture  gallery  of  the  Capitol,  chanced  to  have 
gone  together,  some  months  before,  to  the  catacomb  of 
St.  Calixtus.  They  went  joyously  down  into  that  vast 
tomb,  and  wandered  by  torchlight  through  a  sort  of 
dream,  in  which  reminiscences  of  church  -  aisles  and 
grimy  cellars  —  and  chiefly  the  latter  —  seemed  to  be 
broken  into  fragments,  and  hopelessly  intermingled. 
The  intricate  passages  along  which  they  followed  their 
guide  had  been  hewn,  in  some  forgotten  age,  out  of  a 
dark-red,  crumbly  stone.  On  either  side  were  hori¬ 
zontal  niches,  where,  if  they  held  their  torches  closely, 
the  shape  of  a  human  body  was  discernible  in  white 
ashes,  into  which  the  entire  mortality  of  a  man  or 
woman  had  resolved  itself.  Among  all  this  extinct 
dust,  there  might  perchance  be  a  thigh-bone,  which 


40 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


crumbled  at  a  touch  ;  or  possibly  a  skull,  grinning  at 
its  own  wretched  plight,  as  is  the  ugly  and  empty 
habit  of  the  thing. 

Sometimes  their  gloomy  pathway  tended  upward, 
so  that,  through  a  crevice,  a  little  daylight  glimmered 
down  upon  them,  or  even  a  streak  of  sunshine  peeped 
into  a  burial  niche  ;  then  again,  they  went  downward 
by  gradual  descent,  or  by  abrupt,  rudely  hewn  steps, 
into  deeper  and  deeper  recesses  of  the  earth.  Here 
and  there  the  narrow  and  tortuous  passages  widened 
somewhat,  developing  themselves  into  small  chapels ; 
which  once,  no  doubt,  had  been  adorned  with  marble- 
work  and  lighted  with  ever-burning  lamps  and  tapers. 
All  such  illumination  and  ornament,  however,  had 
long  since  been  extinguished  and  stript  away  ;  except, 
indeed,  that  the  low  roofs  of  a  few  of  these  ancient 
sites  of  worship  were  covered  with  dingy  stucco,  and 
frescoed  with  scriptural  scenes  and  subjects,  in  the 
dreariest  stage  of  ruin. 

In  one  such  chapel,  the  guide  showed  them  a  low 
arch,  beneath  which  the  body  of  St.  Cecilia  had  been 
buried  after  her  martyrdom,  and  where  it  lay  till  a 
sculptor  saw  it,  and  rendered  it  forever  beautiful  in 
marble. 

In  a  similar  spot  they  found  two  sarcophagi,  one 
containing  a  skeleton,  and  the  other  a  shrivelled  body, 
which  still  wore  the  garments  of  its  former  lifetime. 

“  How  dismal  all  this  is !  ”  said  Hilda,  shuddering. 
“  I  do  not  know  why  we  came  here,  nor  why  we  should 
stay  a  moment  longer.” 

“  I  hate  it  all !  ”  cried  Donatello,  with  peculiar  en¬ 
ergy.  u  Dear  friends,  let  us  hasten  back  into  the 
blessed  daylight !  ” 

From  the  first,  Donatello  had  shown  little  fancy  for 


SUBTERRANEAN  REMINISCENCES.  41 


the  expedition  ;  for,  like  most  Italians,  and  in  especial 
accordance  with  the  law  of  his  own  simple  and  phys¬ 
ically  happy  nature,  this  young  man  had  an  infinite  re¬ 
pugnance  to  graves  and  skulls,  and  to  all  that  ghast¬ 
liness  which  the  Gothic  mind  loves  to  associate  with 
the  idea  of  death.  He  shuddered,  and  looked  fear¬ 
fully  round,  drawing  nearer  to  Miriam,  whose  attrac¬ 
tive  influence  alone  had  enticed  him  into  that  gloomy 
region. 

u  What  a  child  you  are,  poor  Donatello  !  ”  she  ob¬ 
served,  with  the  freedom  which  she  always  used  to¬ 
wards  him.  “You  are  afraid  of  ghosts  !  ” 

“Yes,  signorina;  terribly  afraid!”  said  the  truthful 
Donatello. 

“  I  also  believe  in  ghosts,”  answered  Miriam,  “  and 
could  tremble  at  them,  in  a  suitable  place.  But  these 
sepulchres  are  so  old,  and  these  skulls  and  white  ashes 
so  very  dry,  that  methinks  they  have  ceased  to  be 
haunted.  The  most  awful  idea  connected  with  the 
catacombs  is  their  interminable  extent,  and  the  possi¬ 
bility  of  going  astray  into  this  labyrinth  of  darkness, 
which  broods  around  the  little  glimmer  of  our  ta¬ 
pers.” 

“  Has  any  one  ever  been  lost  here  ?  ”  asked  Kenyon 
of  the  guide. 

“  Surely,  signor  ;  one,  no  longer  ago  than  my  fa¬ 
ther’s  time,”  said  the  guide  ;  and  he  added,  with  the 
air  of  a  man  who  believed  what  he  was  telling,  “  but 
the  first  that  went  astray  here  was  a  pagan  of  old 
Borne,  who  hid  himself  in  order  to  spy  out  and  betray 
the  blessed  saints,  who  then  dwelt  and  worshipped  in 
these  dismal  places.  You  have  heard  the  story,  sign¬ 
or?  A  miracle  was  wrought  upon  the  accursed  one ; 
and,  ever  since  (for  fifteen  centuries  at  least),  he  has 


42 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


been  groping  in  the  darkness,  seeking  his  way  out  of 
the  catacomb.” 

“  Has  he  ever  been  seen  ?  ”  asked  Hilda,  who  had 
great  and  tremulous  faith  in  marvels  of  this  kind. 

“  These  eyes  of  mine  never  beheld  him,  signorina ; 
the  saints  forbid!”  answered  the  guide.  “But  it  is 
well  known  that  he  watches  near  parties  that  come  into 
the  catacomb,  especially  if  they  be  heretics,  hoping  to 
lead  some  straggler  astray.  What  this  lost  wretch 
pines  for,  almost  as  much  as  for  the  blessed  sunshine, 
is  a  companion  to  be  miserable  with  him.” 

“  Such  an  intense  desire  for  sympathy  indicates 
something  amiable  in  the  poor  fellow,  at  all  events,” 
observed  Kenyon. 

They  had  now  reached  a  larger  chapel  than  those 
heretofore  seen ;  it  was  of  a  circular  shape,  and,  though 
hewn  out  of  the  solid  mass  of  red  sandstone,  had  pil¬ 
lars,  and  a  carved  roof,  and  other  tokens  of  a  regular 
architectural  design.  Nevertheless,  considered  as  a 
church,  it  was  exceedingly  minute,  being  scarcely  twice 
a  man’s  stature  in  height,  and  only  two  or  three  paces 
from  wall  to  wall ;  and  while  their  collected  torches 
illuminated  this  one  small,  consecrated  spot,  the  great 
darkness  spread  all  round  it,  like  that  immenser  mys¬ 
tery  which  envelops  our  little  life,  and  into  which 
friends  vanish  from  us,  one  by  one. 

“  Why,  where  is  Miriam  ?  ”  cried  Hilda. 

The  party  gazed  hurriedly  from  face  to  face,  and 
became  aware  that  one  of  their  party  had  vanished 
into  the  great  darkness,  even  while  they  were  shudder¬ 
ing  at  the  remote  possibility  of  such  a  misfortune0 


CHAPTER  IV. 


THE  SPECTRE  OF  THE  CATACOMB. 

“  Surely,  she  cannot  be  lost !  ”  exclaimed  Kenyon. 
“  It  is  but  a  moment  since  she  was  speaking.” 

“  No,  no  !  ”  said  Hilda,  in  great  alarm.  “  She  was 
behind  us  all ;  and  it  is  a  long  while  since  we  have 
heard  her  voice !  ” 

u  Torches !  torches  !  ”  cried  Donatello,  desperately. 
“  I  will  seek  her,  be  the  darkness  ever  so  dismal !  ” 

But  the  guide  held  him  back,  and  assured  them  all 
that  there  was  no  possibility  of  assisting  their  lost 
companion,  unless  by  shouting  at  the  very  top  of  their 
voices.  As  the  sound  would  go  very  far  along  these 
close  and  narrow  passages,  there  was  a  fair  probability 
that  Miriam  might  hear  the  call,  and  be  able  to  re¬ 
trace  her  steps. 

Accordingly,  they  all  —  Kenyon  with  his  bass  voice *, 
Donatello  with  his  tenor ;  the  guide  with  that  high  and 
hard  Italian  cry,  which  makes  the  streets  of  Rome  so 
resonant ;  and  Hilda  with  her  slender  scream,  piercing 
farther  than  the  united  uproar  of  the  rest  —  began  to 
shriek,  halloo,  and  bellow,  with  the  utmost  force  of 
their  lungs.  And,  not  to  prolong  the  reader’s  sus¬ 
pense  (for  we  do  not  particularly  seek  to  interest  him 
in  this  scene,  telling  it  only  on  account  of  the  trouble 
and  strange  entanglement  which  followed),  they  soon 
heard  a  responsive  call,  in  a  female  voice. 

“  It  was  the  signorina  !  ”  cried  Donatello,  joyfully. 


44 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI . 


“  Yes ;  it  was  certainly  dear  Miriam’s  voice,”  said 
Hilda.  “  And  here  she  comes !  Thank  Heaven  !  Thank 
Heaven !  ” 

The  figure  of  their  friend  was  now  discernible  by 
her  own  torchlight,  approaching  out  of  one  of  the  cav¬ 
ernous  passages.  Miriam  came  forward,  but  not  with 
the  eagerness  and  tremulous  joy  of  a  fearful  girl,  just 
rescued  from  a  labyrinth  of  gloomy  mystery.  She 
made  no  immediate  response  to  their  inquiries  and 
tumultuous  congratulations ;  and,  as  they  afterwards 
remembered,  there  was  something  absorbed,  thought¬ 
ful,  and  self  -  concentrated  in  her  deportment.  She 
looked  pale,  as  well  she  might,  and  held  her  torch 
with  a  nervous  grasp,  the  tremor  of  which  was  seen  in 
the  irregular  twinkling  of  the  flame.  This  last  was 
the  chief  perceptible  sign  of  any  recent  agitation  or 
alarm. 

46  Dearest,  dearest  Miriam,”  exclaimed  Hilda,  throw¬ 
ing  her  arms  about  her  friend,  “  where  have  you  been 
straying  from  us  ?  Blessed  be  Providence,  which  has 
rescued  you  out  of  that  miserable  darkness !  ” 

“  Hush,  dear  Hilda !  ”  whispered  Miriam,  with  a 
strange  little  laugh.  “  Are  you  quite  sure  that  it  was 
Heaven’s  guidance  which  brought  me  back.  If  so,  it 
was  by  an  odd  messenger,  as  you  will  confess.  See ; 
there  he  stands.” 

Startled  at  Miriam’s  words  and  manner,  Hilda  gazed 
into  the  duskiness  whither  she  pointed,  and  there  be¬ 
held  a  figure  standing  just  on  the  doubtful  limit  of 
obscurity,  at  the  threshold  of  the  small,  illuminated 
chapel.  Kenyon  discerned  him  at  the  same  instant, 
and  drew  nearer  with  his  torch ;  although  the  guide 
attempted  to  dissuade  him,  averring  that,  once  beyond 
the  consecrated  precincts  of  the  chapel,  the  apparition 


THE  SPECTRE  OF  THE  CATACOMB .  45 


would  have  power  to  tear  him  limb  from  limb.  It 
struck  the  sculptor,  however,  when  he  afterwards  re¬ 
curred  to  these  circumstances,  that  the  guide  mani¬ 
fested  no  such  apprehension  on  his  own  account  as  he 
professed  on  behalf  of  others ;  for  he  kept  pace  with 
Kenyon  as  the  latter  approached  the  figure,  though 
still  endeavoring  to  restrain  him. 

In  fine,  they  both  drew  near  enough  to  get  as  good 
a  view  of  the  spectre  as  the  smoky  light  of  their 
torches,  struggling  with  the  massive  gloom,  could  sup- 

p!y- 

The  stranger  was  of  exceedingly  picturesque,  and 
even  melodramatic  aspect.  He  was  clad  in  a  volu¬ 
minous  cloak,  that  seemed  to  be  made  of  a  buffalo’s 
hide,  and  a  pair  of  those  goat-skin  breeches,  with  the 
hair  outward,  which  are  still  commonly  worn  by  the 
peasants  of  the  Roman  Campagna.  In  this  garb,  they 
look  like  antique  Satyrs ;  and,  in  truth,  the  Spectre 
of  the  Catacomb  might  have  represented  the  last  sur¬ 
vivor  of  that  vanished  race,  hiding  himself  in  sepul¬ 
chral  gloom,  and  mourning  over  his  lost  life  of  woods 
and  streams. 

Furthermore,  he  had  on  a  broad  -  brimmed,  conical 
hat,  beneath  the  shadow  of  which  a  wild  visage  was 
indistinctly  seen,  floating  away,  as  it  were,  into  a 
dusky  wilderness  of  mustache  and  beard.  His  eyes 
winked,  and  turned  uneasily  from  the  torches,  like  a 
creature  to  whom  midnight  would  be  more  congenial 
than  noonday. 

On  the  whole,  the  spectre  might  have  made  a  con¬ 
siderable  impression  on  the  sculptor’s  nerves,  only 
that  he  was  in  the  habit  of  observing  similar  figures, 
almost  every  day,  reclining  on  the  Spanish  steps,  and 
waiting  for  some  artist  to  invite  them  within  the  magic 


46 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


realm  of  picture.  Nor,  even  thus  familiarized  with 
the  stranger’s  peculiarities  of  appearance,  could  Ken¬ 
yon  help  wondering  to  see  such  a  personage,  shaping 
himself  so  suddenly  out  of  the  void  darkness  of  the 
catacomb. 

“What  are  you?”  said  the  sculptor,  advancing  his 
torch  nearer.  “  And  how  long  have  you  been  wander¬ 
ing  here  ?  ” 

“  A  thousand  and  five  hundred  years !  ”  muttered 
the  guide,  loud  enough  to  be  heard  by  all  the  party. 
“  It  is  the  old  pagan  phantom  that  I  told  you  of,  who 
sought  to  betray  the  blessed  saints  !  ” 

“  Yes  ;  it  is  a  phantom !  ”  cried  Donatello,  with  a 
shudder.  “  Ah,  dearest  signorina,  what  a  fearful  thing 
has  beset  you  in  those  dark  corridors  !  ” 

“  Nonsense,  Donatello,”  said  the  sculptor.  “  The 
man  is  no  more  a  phantom  than  yourself.  The  only 
marvel  is,  how  he  comes  to  be  hiding  himself  in  the 
catacomb.  Possibly,  our  guide  might  solve  the  rid¬ 
dle.” 

The  spectre  himself  here  settled  the  point  of  his 
tangibility,  at  all  events,  and  physical  substance,  by 
approaching  a  step  nearer,  and  laying  his  hand  on 
Kenyon’s  arm. 

“  Inquire  not  what  I  am,  nor  wherefore  I  abide  in 
the  darkness,”  said  he,  in  a  hoarse,  harsh  voice,  as  if 
a  great  deal  of  damp  were  clustering  in  his  throat. 
“  Henceforth,  I  am  nothing  but  a  shadow  behind  her 
footsteps.  She  came  to  me  when  I  sought  her  not. 
She  has  called  me  forth,  and  must  abide  the  conse¬ 
quences  of  my  reappearance  in  the  world.” 

“  Holy  Virgin  !  I  wish  the  signorina  joy  of  her 
prize,”  said  the  guide,  half  to  himself.  “  And  in  any 
case,  the  catacomb  is  well  rid  of  him.” 


THE  SPECTRE  OF  THE  CATACOMB .  47 


We  need  follow  the  scene  no  further.  So  much  is 
essential  to  the  subsequent  narrative,  that,  during  the 
short  period  while  astray  in  those  tortuous  passages, 
Miriam  had  encountered  an  unknown  man,  and  led 
him  forth  with  her,  or  was  guided  back  by  him,  first 
into  the  torchlight,  thence  into  the  sunshine. 

It  was  the  further  singularity  of  this  affair,  that  the 
connection,  thus  briefly  and  casually  formed,  did  not 
terminate  with  the  incident  that  gave  it  birth.  As  if 
her  service  to  him,  or  his  service  to  her,  whichever 
it  might  be,  had  given  him  an  indefeasible  claim  on 
Miriam’s  regard  and  protection,  the  Spectre  of  the 
Catacomb  never  long  allowed  her  to  lose  sight  of  him, 
from  that  day  forward.  He  haunted  her  footsteps 
with  more  than  the  customary  persistency  of  Italian 
mendicants,  when  once  they  have  recognized  a  bene¬ 
factor.  For  days  together,  it  is  true,  he  occasionally 
vanished,  but  always  reappeared,  gliding  after  her 
through  the  narrow  streets,  or  climbing  the  hundred 
steps  of  her  staircase  and  sitting  at  her  threshold. 

Being  often  admitted  to  her  studio,  he  left  his  fea¬ 
tures,  or  some  shadow  or  reminiscence  of  them,  in 
many  of  her  sketches  and  pictures.  The  moral  at¬ 
mosphere  of  these  productions  was  thereby  so  influ¬ 
enced,  that  rival  painters  pronounced  it  a  case  of 
hopeless  mannerism,  which  would  destroy  all  Miriam’s 
prospects  of  true  excellence  in  art. 

The  story  of  this  adventure  spread  abroad,  and 
made  its  way  beyond  the  usual  gossip  of  the  Fores- 
tieri,  even  into  Italian  circles,  where,  enhanced  by  a 
still  potent  spirit  of  superstition,  it  grew  far  more 
wonderful  than  as  above  recounted.  Thence,  it  came 
back  among  the  Anglo-Saxons,  and  was  communi¬ 
cated  to  the  German  artists,  who  so  richly  supplied  it 


48 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


with  romantic  ornaments  and  excrescences,  after  their 
fashion,  that  it  became  a  fantasy  worthy  of  Tieck  or 
Hoffmann.  For  nobody  has  any  conscience  about  add¬ 
ing  to  the  improbabilities  of  a  marvellous  tale. 

The  most  reasonable  version  of  the  incident,  that 
could  anywise  be  rendered  acceptable  to  the  auditors, 
was  substantially  the  one  suggested  by  the  guide  of 
the  catacomb,  in  his  allusion  to  the  legend  of  Mem- 
mius.  This  man,  or  demon,  or  man-demon,  was  a  spy 
during  the  persecutions  of  the  early  Christians,  prob¬ 
ably  under  the  Emperor  Diocletian,  and  penetrated 
into  the  catacomb  of  St.  Calixtus,  with  the  malignant 
purpose  of  tracing  out  the  hiding-places  of  the  refu¬ 
gees.  But,  while  he  stole  craftily  through  those  dark 
corridors,  he  chanced  to  come  upon  a  little  chapel, 
where  tapers  were  burning  before  an  altar  and  a  cru¬ 
cifix,  and  a  priest  was  in  the  performance  of  his  sacred 
office.  By  divine  indulgence,  there  was  a  single  mo¬ 
ment’s  grace  allowed  to  Memmius,  during  which,  had 
he  been  capable  of  Christian  faith  and  love,  he  might 
have  knelt  before  the  cross,  and  received  the  holy  light 
into  his  soul,  and  so  have  been  blest  forever.  But  he 
resisted  the  sacred  impulse.  As  soon,  therefore,  as 
that  one  moment  had  glided  by,  the  light  of  the  con¬ 
secrated  tapers,  which  represent  all  truth,  bewildered 
the  wretched  man  with  everlasting  error,  and  the 
blessed  cross  itself  was  stamped  as  a  seal  upon  his 
heart,  so  that  it  should  never  open  to  receive  convic¬ 
tion. 

Thenceforth,  this  heathen  Memmius  has  haunted 
the  wide  and  dreary  precincts  of  the  catacomb,  seek¬ 
ing,  as  some  say,  to  beguile  new  victims  into  his  own 
misery ;  but,  according  to  other  statements,  endeavor¬ 
ing  to  prevail  on  any  unwary  visitor  to  take  him  by 


THE  SPECTRE  OF  THE  CATACOMB.  49 


the  hand,  and  guide  him  out  into  the  daylight.  Should 
his  wiles  and  entreaties  take  effect,  however,  the  man- 
demon  would  remain  only  a  little  while  above  ground. 
He  would  gratify  his  fiendish  malignity  by  perpetrat¬ 
ing  signal  mischief  on  his  benefactor,  and  perhaps 
bringing  some  old  pestilence  or  other  forgotten  and 
long-buried  evil  on  society ;  or,  possibly,  teaching  the 
modern  world  some  decayed  and  dusty  kind  of  crime, 
which  the  antique  Romans  knew;  and  then  would 
hasten  back  to  the  catacomb,  which,  after  so  long 
haunting  it,  has  grown  his  most  congenial  home. 

Miriam  herself,  with  her  chosen  friends,  the  sculp¬ 
tor  and  the  gentle  Hilda,  often  laughed  at  the  mon¬ 
strous  fictions  that  had  gone  abroad  in  reference  to 
her  adventure.  Her  two  confidants  (for  such  they 
were,  on  all  ordinary  subjects)  had  not  failed  to  ask 
an  explanation  of  the  mystery,  since  undeniably  a 
mystery  there  was,  and  one  sufficiently  perplexing  in 
itself,  without  any  help  from  the  imaginative  faculty. 
And,  sometimes  responding  to  their  inquiries  with  a 
melancholy  sort  of  playfulness,  Miriam  let  her  fancy 
run  off  into  wilder  fables  than  any  which  German  in¬ 
genuity  or  Italian  superstition  had  contrived. 

For  example,  with  a  strange  air  of  seriousness  over 
all  her  face,  only  belied  by  a  laughing  gleam  in  her 
dark  eyes,  she  would  aver  that  the  spectre  (who  had 
been  an  artist  in  his  mortal  lifetime)  had  promised 
to  teach  her  a  long  lost,  but  invaluable  secret  of  old 
Roman  fresco-painting.  The  knowledge  of  this  pro¬ 
cess  would  place  Miriam  at  the  head  of  modern  art ; 
the  sole  condition  being  agreed  upon,  that  she  should 
return  with  him  into  his  sightless  gloom,  after  enrich¬ 
ing  a  certain  extent  of  stuccoed  wall  with  the  most 
brilliant  and  lovely  designs.  And  what  true  votary  of 

VOL.  VI.  ' 


50 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


art  would  not  purchase  unrivalled  excellence,  even  at 
so  vast  a  sacrifice ! 

Or,  if  her  friends  still  solicited  a  soberer  account, 
Miriam  replied,  that,  meeting  the  old  infidel  in  one  of 
the  dismal  passages  of  the  catacomb,  she  had  entered 
into  controversy  with  him,  hoping  to  achieve  the  glory 
and  satisfaction  of  converting  him  to  the  Christian 
faith.  For  the  sake  of  so  excellent  a  result,  she  had 
even  staked  her  own  salvation  against  his,  binding 
herself  to  accompany  him  back  into  his  penal  gloom, 
if,  within  a  twelve-month’s  space,  she  should  not  have 
convinced  him  of  the  errors  through  which  he  had  so 
long  groped  and  stumbled.  But,  alas  !  up  to  the  pres¬ 
ent  time,  the  controversy  had  gone  direfully  in  favor 
of  the  man-demon ;  and  Miriam  (as  she  whispered  in 
Hilda’s  ear)  had  awful  forebodings,  that,  in  a  few 
more  months,  she  must  take  an  eternal  farewell  of 
the  sun  ! 

It  was  somewhat  remarkable  that  all  her  romantic 
fantasies  arrived  at  this  self-same  dreary  termination ; 
it  appeared  impossible  for  her  even  to  imagine  any 
other  than  a  disastrous  result  from  her  connection 
with  her  ill-omened  attendant. 

This  singularity  might  have  meant  nothing,  how¬ 
ever,  had  it  not  suggested  a  despondent  state  of  mind, 
which  was  likewise  indicated  by  many  other  tokens. 
Miriam’s  friends  had  no  difficulty  in  perceiving  that, 
in  one  way  or  another,  her  happiness  was  very  seri¬ 
ously  compromised.  Her  spirits  were  often  depressed 
into  deep  melancholy.  If  ever  she  was  gay,  it  was 
seldom  with  a  healthy  cheerfulness.  She  grew  moody, 
moreover,  and  subject  to  fits  of  passionate  ill-temper ; 
which  usually  wreaked  itself  on  the  heads  of  those 
who  loved  her  best.  Not  that  Miriam’s  indifferent 


THE  SPECTRE  OF  THE  CATACOMB.  51 


acquaintances  were  safe  from  similar  outbreaks  of  her 
displeasure,  especially  if  they  ventured  upon  any  allu¬ 
sion  to  the  model.  In  such  cases,  they  were  left  with 
little  disposition  to  renew  the  subject,  but  inclined,  on 
the  other  hand,  to  interpret  the  whole  matter  as  much 
to  her  discredit  as  the  least  favorable  coloring  of  the 
facts  would  allow. 

It  may  occur  to  the  reader,  that  there  was  really  no 
demand  for  so  much  rumor  and  speculation  in  regard 
to  an  incident,  which  might  well  enough  have  been  ex¬ 
plained  without  going  many  steps  beyond  the  limits  of 
probability.  The  spectre  might  have  been  merely  a 
Itoman  beggar,  whose  fraternity  often  harbor  in  stran¬ 
ger  shelters  than  the  catacombs ;  or  one  of  those  pil¬ 
grims,  who  still  journey  from  remote  countries  to 
kneel  and  worship  at  the  holy  sites,  among  which  these 
haunts  of  the  early  Christians  are  esteemed  especially 
sacred.  Or,  as  was  perhaps  a  more  plausible  theory, 
he  might  be  a  thief  of  the  city,  a  robber  of  the  Cam- 
pagna,  a  political  offender,  or  an  assassin,  with  blood 
upon  his  hand ;  whom  the  negligence  or  connivance  of 
the  police  allowed  to  take  refuge  in  those  subterranean 
fastnesses,  where  such  outlaws  have  been  accustomed 
to  hide  themselves  from  a  far  antiquity  downward. 
Or  he  might  have  been  a  lunatic,  fleeing  instinctively 
from  man,  and  making  it  his  dark  pleasure  to  dwell 
among  the  tombs,  like  him  whose  awful  cry  echoes 
afar  to  us  from  Scripture  times. 

And,  as  for  the  stranger’s  attaching  himself  so  de¬ 
votedly  to  Miriam,  her  personal  magnetism  might  be 
allowed  a  certain  weight  in  the  explanation.  For 
what  remains,  his  pertinacity  need  not  seem  so  very 
singular  to  those  who  consider  how  slight  a  link  serves 
to  connect  these  vagabonds  of  idle  Italy  with  any  per- 


52 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


son  that  may  have  the  ill-hap  to  bestow  charity,  or  he 
otherwise  serviceable  to  them,  or  betray  the  slightest 
interest  in  their  fortunes. 

Thus  little  would  remain  to  be  accounted  for,  ex¬ 
cept  the  deportment  of  Miriam  herself ;  her  reserve, 
her  brooding  melancholy,  her  petulance,  and  moody 
passion.  If  generously  interpreted,  even  these  morbid 
symptoms  might  have  sufficient  cause  in  the  stimulat¬ 
ing  and  exhaustive  influences  of  imaginative  art,  exer¬ 
cised  by  a  delicate  young  woman,  in  the  nervous  and 
unwholesome  atmosphere  of  Rome.  Such,  at  least,  was 
the  view  of  the  case  which  Hilda  and  Kenyon  endeav¬ 
ored  to  impress  on  their  own  minds,  and  impart  to 
those  whom  their  opinions  might  influence. 

One  of  Miriam’s  friends  took  the  matter  sadly  to 
heart.  This  was  the  young  Italian.  Donatello,  as  we 
have  seen,  had  been  an  eye-witness  of  the  stranger’s 
first  appearance,  and  had  ever  since  nourished  a  sin¬ 
gular  prejudice  against  the  mysterious,  dusky,  death- 
scented  apparition.  It  resembled  not  so  much  a  human 
dislike  or  hatred,  as  one  of  those  instinctive,  unrea¬ 
soning  antipathies  which  the  lower,  animals  sometimes 
display,  and  which  generally  prove  more  trustworthy 
than  the  acutest  insight  into  character.  The  shadow 
of  the  model,  always  flung  into  the  light  which  Mir¬ 
iam  diffused  around  her,  caused  no  slight  trouble  to 
Donatello.  Yet  he  was  of  a  nature  so  remarkably 
genial  and  joyous,  so  simply  happy,  that  he  might 
well  afford  to  have  something  subtracted  from  his 
comfort,  and  make  tolerable  shift  to  live  upon  what 
remained. 


CHAPTER  V. 


miriam’s  studio. 

The  court-yard  and  staircase  of  a  palace  built  three 
hundred  years  ago  are  a  peculiar  feature  of  modern 
Rome,  and  interest  the  stranger  more  than  many 
things  of  which  he  has  heard  loftier  descriptions. 
You  pass  through  the  grand  breadth  and  height  of  a 
squalid  entrance  -  way,  and  perhaps  see  a  range  of 
dusky  pillars,  forming  a  sort  of  cloister  round  the 
court,  and  in  the  intervals,  from  pillar  to  pillar,  are 
strewn  fragments  of  antique  statues,  headless  and  leg¬ 
less  torsos,  and  busts  that  have  invariably  lost  —  what 
it  might  be  well  if  living  men  could  lay  aside  in  that 
unfragrant  atmosphere  —  the  nose.  Bas  -  reliefs,  the 
spoil  of  some  far  older  palace,  are  set  in  the  surround¬ 
ing  walls,  every  stone  of  which  has  been  ravished 
from  the  Coliseum,  or  any  other  imperial  ruin  which 
earlier  barbarism  had  not  already  levelled  with  the 
earth.  Between  two  of  the  pillars,  moreover,  stands 
an  old  sarcophagus  without  its  lid,  and  with  all  its 
more  prominently  projecting  sculptures  broken  off ; 
perhaps  it  once  held  famous  dust,  and  the  bony  frame¬ 
work  of  some  historic  man,  although  now  only  a  re¬ 
ceptacle  for  the  rubbish  of  the  court-yard,  and  a  half- 
worn  broom. 

In  the  centre  of  the  court,  under  the  blue  Italian 
sky,  and  with  the  hundred  windows  of  the  vast  palace 
gazing  down  upon  it,  from  four  sides,  appears  a  foun- 


54 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI . 


tain.  It  brims  over  from  one  stone  basin  to  another, 
or  gushes  from  a  Naiad’s  urn,  or  spurts  its  many  lit¬ 
tle  jets  from  the  mouths  of  nameless  monsters,  which 
were  merely  grotesque  and  artificial  when  Bernini,  or 
whoever  was  their  unnatural  father,  first  produced 
them  ;  but  now  the  patches  of  moss,  the  tufts  of  grass, 
the  trailing  maiden -hair,  and  all  sorts  of  verdant 
weeds  that  thrive  in  the  cracks  and  crevices  of  moist 
marble,  tell  us  that  Nature  takes  the  fountain  back 
into  her  great  heart,  and  cherishes  it  as  kindly  as  if 
it  were  a  woodland  spring.  And,  hark,  the  pleasant 
murmur,  the  gurgle,  the  plash  !  You  might  hear  just 
those  tinkling  sounds  from  any  tiny  waterfall  in  the 
forest,  though  here  they  gain  a  delicious  pathos  from 
the  stately  echoes  that  reverberate  their  natural  lan¬ 
guage.  So  the  fountain  is  not  altogether  glad,  after 
all  its  three  centuries  at  play  ! 

In  one  of  the  angles  of  the  court-yard,  a  pillared 
door  -  way  gives  access  to  the  staircase,  with  its  spa¬ 
cious  breadth  of  low,  marble  steps,  up  which,  in 
former  times,  have  gone  the  princes  and  cardinals  of 
the  great  Roman  family  who  built  this  palace.  Or 
they  have  come  down,  with  still  grander  and  loftier 
mien,  on  their  way  to  the  Vatican  or  the  Quirinal, 
there  to  put  off  their  scarlet  hats  in  exchange  for  the 
triple  crown.  But,  in  fine,  all  these  illustrious  per¬ 
sonages  have  gone  down  their  hereditary  staircase  for 
the  last  time,  leaving  it  to  be  the  thoroughfare  of  am¬ 
bassadors,  English  noblemen,  American  millionnaires, 
artists,  tradesmen,  washerwomen,  and  people  of  every 
degree  ;  all  of  whom  find  such  gilded  and  marble- 
panelled  saloons  as  their  pomp  and  luxury  demand,  or 
such  homely  garrets  as  their  necessity  can  pay  for, 
within  this  one  multifarious  abode.  Only,  in  not  a 


MIRIAM'S  STUDIO. 


55 


single  nook  of  the  palace  (built  for  splendor,  and  the 
accommodation  of  a  vast  retinue,  but  with  no  vision 
of  a  happy  fireside  or  any  mode  of  domestic  enjoy¬ 
ment)  does  the  humblest  or  the  haughtiest  occupant 
find  comfort. 

Up  such  a  staircase,  on  the  morning  after  the  scene 
at  the  sculpture  gallery,  sprang  the  light  foot  of  Dona¬ 
tello.  He  ascended  from  story  to  story,  passing  lofty 
door-ways,  set  within  rich  frames  of  sculptured  mar¬ 
ble,  and  climbing  unweariedly  upward,  until  the  glories 
of  the  first  piano  and  the  elegance  of  the  middle 
height  were  exchanged  for  a  sort  of  Alpine  region, 
cold  and  naked  in  its  aspect.  Steps  of  rough  stone, 
rude  wooden  balustrades,  a  brick  pavement  in  the  pas¬ 
sages,  a  dingy  whitewash  on  the  walls ;  these  were  here 
the  palatial  features.  Finally,  he  paused  before  an 
oaken  door,  on  which  was  pinned  a  card,  bearing  the 
name  of  Miriam  Schaefer,  artist  in  oils.  Here  Dona¬ 
tello  knocked,  and  the  door  immediately  fell  some¬ 
what  ajar  ;  its  latch  having  been  pulled  up  by  means 
of  a  string  on  the  inside.  Passing  through  a  little 
anteroom,  he  found  himself  in  Miriam’s  presence. 

“  Come  in,  wild  Faun,”  she  said,  “  and  tell  me  the 
latest  news  from  Arcady !  ” 

The  artist  was  not  just  then  at  her  easel,  but  was 
busied  with  the  feminine  task  of  mending  a  pair  of 
gloves. 

There  is  something  extremely  pleasant,  and  even 
touching,  —  at  least,  of  very  sweet,  soft,  and  winning 
effect,  —  in  this  peculiarity  of  needlework,  distinguish¬ 
ing  women  from  men.  Our  own  sex  is  incapable  of 
any  such  by-play  aside  from  the  main  business  of  life  ; 
but  women  —  be  they  of  what  earthly  rank  they  may, 
however  gifted  with  intellect  or  genius,  or  endowed 


56 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


with  awful  beauty  —  have  always  some  little  handi¬ 
work  ready  to  fill  the  tiny  gap  of  every  vacant  mo¬ 
ment.  A  needle  is  familiar  to  the  fingers  of  them  all. 
A  queen,  no  doubt,  plies  it  on  occasion  ;  the  woman 
poet  can  use  it  as  adroitly  as  her  pen  ;  the  woman’s 
eye,  that  has  discovered  a  new  star,  turns  from  its 
glory  to  send  the  polished  little  instrument  gleaming 
along  the  hem  of  her  kerchief,  or  to  darn  a  casual 
fray  in  her  dress.  And  they  have  greatly  the  advan¬ 
tage  of  us  in  this  respect.  The  slender  thread  of  silk 
or  cotton  keeps  them  united  with  the  small,  familiar, 
gentle  interests  of  life,  the  continually  operating  in¬ 
fluences  of  which  do  so  much  for  the  health  of  the 
character,  and  carry  oft  what  would  otherwise  be  a 
dangerous  accumulation  of  morbid  sensibility.  A  vast 
deal  of  human  sympathy  runs  along  this  electric  line, 
stretching  from  the  throne  to  the  wicker  chair  of  the 
humblest  seamstress,  and  keeping  high  and  low  in  a 
species  of  communion  with  their  kindred  beings.  Me- 
thinks  it  is  a  token  of  healthy  and  gentle  characteris¬ 
tics,  when  women  of  high  thoughts  and  accomplish¬ 
ments  love  to  sew  ;  especially  as  they  are  never  more 
at  home  with  their  own  hearts  than  while  so  occupied. 

And  when  the  work  falls  in  a  woman’s  lap,  of  its 
own  accord,  and  the  needle  involuntarily  ceases  to  fly, 
it  is  a  sign  of  trouble,  quite  as  trustworthy  as  the 
throb  of  the  heart  itself.  This  was  what  happened  to 
Miriam.  Even  while  Donatello  stood  gazing  at  her, 
she  seemed  to  have  forgotten  his  presence,  allowing 
him  to  drop  out  of  her  thoughts,  and  the  torn  glove 
to  fall  from  her  idle  fingers.  Simple  as  he  was,  the 
young  man  knew  by  his  sympathies  that  something 
was  amiss. 

“  Dear  lady,  you  are  sad,”  said  he,  drawing  close  to 
her» 


MIRIAM'S  STUDIO. 


57 


“  It  is  nothing,  Donatello,”  she  replied,  resuming 
her  work ;  “  yes  ;  a  little  sad,  perhaps  ;  but  that  is 
not  strange  for  us  people  of  the  ordinary  world,  espe- 
cialty  for  women.  You  are  of  a  cheerf uller  race,  my 
friend,  and  know  nothing  of  this  disease  of  sadness. 
But  why  do  you  come  into  this  shadowy  room  of 
mine  ?  ” 

“  Why  do  you  make  it  so  shadowy  ?  ”  asked  he. 

“We  artists  purposely  exclude  sunshine,  and  all 
but  a  partial  light,”  said  Miriam,  “  because  we  think  it 
necessary  to  put  ourselves  at  odds  with  Nature  before 
trying  to  imitate  her.  That  strikes  you  very  strangely, 
does  it  not  ?  But  we  make  very  pretty  pictures  some¬ 
times  with  our  artfully  arranged  lights  and  shadows. 
Amuse  yourself  with  some  of  mine,  Donatello,  and  by 
and  by  I  shall  be  in  the  mood  to  begin  the  portrait  we 
were  talking  about.” 

The  room  had  the  customary  aspect  of  a  painter’s 
studio ;  one  of  those  delightful  spots  that  hardly  seem 
to  belong  to  the  actual  world,  but  rather  to  be  the  out¬ 
ward  type  of  a  poet’s  haunted  imagination,  where  there 
are  glimpses,  sketches,  and  half-developed  hints  of  be¬ 
ings  and  objects  grander  and  more  beautiful  than  we 
can  anywhere  find  in  reality.  The  windows  were  closed 
with  shutters,  or  deeply  curtained,  except  one,  which 
was  partly  open  to  a  sunless  portion  of  the  sky,  admit¬ 
ting  only  from  high  upward  that  partial  light  which, 
with  its  strongly  marked  contrast  of  shadow,  is  the 
first  requisite  towards  seeing  objects  pictorially.  Pen¬ 
cil-drawings  were  pinned  against  the  wall  or  scattered 
on  the  tables.  Unframed  canvases  turned  their  backs 
on  the  spectator,  presenting  only  a  blank  to  the  eye, 
and  churlishly  concealing  whatever  riches  of  scenery 
or  human  beauty  Miriam’s  skill  had  depicted  on  the 
other  side. 


58 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI . 


In  the  obscurest  part  of  the  room  Donatello  was 
half  startled  at  perceiving  duskily  a  woman  with  long 
dark  hair,  who  threw  up  her  arms  with  a  wild  gesture 
of  tragic  despair,  and  appeared  to  beckon  him  into 
the  darkness  along  with  her. 

“  Do  not  be  afraid,  Donatello,”  said  Miriam,  smil 
ing  to  see  him  peering  doubtfully  into  the  mysterious 
dusk.  “  She  means  you  no  mischief,  nor  could  perpe¬ 
trate  any  if  she  wished  it  ever  so  much.  It  is  a  lady 
of  exceedingly  pliable  disposition  ;  now  a  heroine  of 
romance,  and  now  a  rustic  maid;  yet  all  for  show; 
being  created,  indeed,  on  purpose  to  wear  rich  shawls 
and  other  garments  in  a  becoming  fashion.  This  is  the 
true  end  of  her  being,  although  she  pretends  to  assume 
the  most  varied  duties  and  perform  many  parts  in  life, 
while  really  the  poor  puppet  has  nothing  on  earth  to 
do.  Upon  my  word,  I  am  satirical  unawares,  and  seem 
to  be  describing  nine  women  out  of  ten  in  the  person 
of  my  lay-figure.  For  most  purposes  she  has  the  ad¬ 
vantage  of  the  sisterhood.  W ould  I  were  like  her  !  ” 

“  How  it  changes  her  aspect,”  exclaimed  Donatello, 
“  to  know  that  she  is  but  a  jointed  figure !  When  my 
eyes  first  fell  upon  her,  I  thought  her  arms  moved,  as 
if  beckoning  me  to  help  her  in  some  direful  peril.” 

u  Are  you  often  troubled  with  such  sinister  freaks 
of  fancy  ?  ”  asked  Miriam.  “  I  should  not  have  sup¬ 
posed  it.” 

“  To  tell  you  the  truth,  dearest  signorina,”  answered 
the  young  Italian,  “  I  am  apt  to  be  fearful  in  old, 
gloomy  houses,  and  in  the  dark.  I  love  no  dark  or 
dusky  corners,  except  it  be  in  a  grotto,  or  among  the 
thick  green  leaves  of  an  arbor,  or  in  some  nook  of  the 
woods,  such  as  I  know  many  in  the  neighborhood  of 
my  home.  Even  there,  if  a  stray  sunbeam  steal  in, 
the  shadow  is  all  the  better  for  its  cheerful  glimmer.’ 


MIRIAM’S  STUDIO. 


59 


“  Yes  ;  you  are  a  Faun,  you  know,”  said  the  fair 
artist,  laughing  at  the  remembrance  of  the  scene  of 
the  day  before.  “  But  the  world  is  sadly  changed 
nowadays ;  grievously  changed,  poor  Donatello,  since 
those  happy  times  when  your  race  used  to  dwell  in 
the  Arcadian  woods,  playing  hide-and-seek  with  the 
nymphs  in  grottos  and  nooks  of  shrubbery.  You  have 
reappeared  on  earth  some  centuries  too  late.” 

“  I  do  not  understand  you  now,”  answered  Dona¬ 
tello,  looking  perplexed  ;  “  only  signorina,  I  am  glad 
to  have  my  lifetime  while  you  live  ;  and  where  you 
are,  be  it  in  cities  or  fields,  I  would  fain  be  there  too.” 

“  I  wonder  whether  I  ought  to  allow  you  to  speak  in 
this  way,”  said  Miriam,  looking  thoughtfully  at  him. 
“  Many  young  women  would  think  it  behoved  them  to 
be  offended.  Hilda  would  never  let  you  speak  so,  I 
dare  say.  But  he  is  a  mere  boy,”  she  added,  aside,  “  a 
simple  boy,  putting  his  boyish  heart  to  the  proof  on 
the  first  woman  whom  he  chances  to  meet.  If  yonder 
lay -‘figure  had  had  the  luck  to  meet  him  first,  she 
would  have  smitten  him  as  deeply  as  I.” 

“  Are  you  angry  with  me  ?  ”  asked  Donatello,  dolo¬ 
rously. 

“  Not  in  the  least,”  answered  Miriam,  frankly  giv¬ 
ing  him  her  hand.  “  Pray  look  over  some  of  these 
sketches  till  I  have  leisure  to  chat  with  you  a  little.  I 
hardly  think  I  am  in  spirits  enough  to  begin  your  por^ 
trait  to-day.” 

Donatello  was  as  gentle  and  docile  as  a  pet  spaniel ; 
as  playful,  too,  in  his  general  disposition,  or  sadden¬ 
ing  with  his  mistress’s  variable  mood  like  that  or  any 
other  kindly  animal  which  has  the  faculty  of  bestowing 
its  sympathies  more  completely  than  men  or  women 
can  ever  do.  Accordingly,  as  Miriam  bade  him,  he 


60 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


tried  to  turn  his  attention  to  a  great  pile  and  confu¬ 
sion  of  pen-and-ink  sketches  and  pencil  -  drawings 
which  lay  tossed  together  on  a  table.  As  it  chanced, 
however,  they  gave  the  poor  youth  little  delight. 

The  first  that  he  took  up  was  a  very  impressive 
sketch,  in  which  the  artist  had  jotted  down  her  rough 
ideas  for  a  picture  of  Jael  driving  the  nail  through 
the  temples  of  Sisera.  It  was  dashed  off  with  remark¬ 
able  power,  and  showed  a  touch  or  two  that  were  ac¬ 
tually  life-like  and  death-like,  as  if  Miriam  had  been 
standing  by  when  Jael  gave  the  first  stroke  of  her 
murderous  hammer,  or  as  if  she  herself  were  J ael,  and 
felt  irresistibly  impelled  to  make  her  bloody  confes¬ 
sion  in  this  guise. 

Her  first  conception  of  the  stern  Jewess  had  evi¬ 
dently  been  that  of  perfect  womanhood,  a  lovely  form, 
and  a  high,  heroic  face  of  lofty  beauty ;  but,  dissat¬ 
isfied  either  with  her  own  work  or  the  terrible  story 
itself,  Miriam  had  added  a  certain  wayward  quirk  of 
her  pencil,  which  at  once  converted  the  heroine  into 
a  vulgar  murderess.  It  was  evident  that  a  Jael  like 
this  would  be  sure  to  search  Sisera’ s  pockets  as  soon 
as  the  breath  was  out  of  his  body. 

In  another  sketch  she  had  attempted  the  story  of 
Judith,  which  we  see  represented  by  the  old  masters 
so  often,  and  in  such  various  styles.  Here,  too,  be¬ 
ginning  with  a  passionate  and  fiery  conception  of  the 
subject  in  all  earnestness,  she  had  given  the  last 
touches  in  utter  scorn,  as  it  were,  of  the  feelings  which 
at  first  took  such  powerful  possession  of  her  hand. 
The  head  of  Holofernes  (which  by  the  by  had  a  pair 
of  twisted  mustaches,  like  those  of  a  certain  potentate 
of  the  day)  being  fairly  cut  off,  was  screwing  its  eyes 
upward  and  twirling  its  features  into  a  diabolical  grin 


MIRIAM'S  STUDIO . 


61 


of  triumphant  malice,  which  it  flung  right  in  Judith’s 
face.  On  her  part,  she  had  the  startled  aspect  that 
might  be  conceived  of  a  cook  if  a  calf’s  head  should 
sneer  at  her  when  about  to  be  popped  into  the  dinner- 
pot. 

Over  and  over  again,  there  was  the  idea  of  woman, 
acting  the  part  of  a  revengeful  mischief  towards  man. 
It  was,  indeed,  very  singular  to  see  how  the  artist’s 
imagination  seemed  to  run  on  these  stories  of  blood¬ 
shed,  in  which  woman’s  hand  was  crimsoned  by  the 
stain  ;  and  how,  too,  —  in  one  form  or  another,  gro¬ 
tesque  or  sternly  sad,  —  she  failed  not  to  bring  out 
the  moral,  that  woman  must  strike  through  her  own 
heart  to  reach  a  human  life,  whatever  were  the  motive 
that  impelled  her. 

One  of  the  sketches  represented  the  daughter  of 
Herodias  receiving  the  head  of  John  the  Baptist  in  a 
charger.  The  general  conception  appeared  to  be  taken 
from  Bernardo  Luini’s  picture,  in  the  Uffizzi  Gallery 
at  Florence  ;  but  Miriam  had  imparted  to  the  saint’s 
face  a  look  of  gentle  and  heavenly  reproach,  with  sad 
and  blessed  eyes  fixed  upward  at  the  maiden ;  by  the 
force  of  which  miraculous  glance,  her  whole  woman¬ 
hood  was  at  once  awakened  to  love  and  endless  re¬ 
morse. 

These  sketches  had  a  most  disagreeable  effect  on 
Donatello’s  peculiar  temperament.  He  gave  a  shud¬ 
der  ;  his  face  assumed  a  look  of  trouble,  fear,  and 
disgust ;  he  snatched  up  one  sketch  after  another,  as 
if  about  to  tear  it  in  pieces.  Finally,  shoving  away 
the  pile  of  drawings,  he  shrank  back  from  the  table 
and  clasped  his  hands  over  his  eyes. 

“  What  is  the  matter,  Donatello  ?  ”  asked  Miriam, 
looking  up  from  a  letter  which  she  was  now  writing. 


62 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


“  Ah  !  I  did  not  mean  you  to  see  those  drawings. 
They  are  ugly  phantoms  that  stole  out  of  my  mind ; 
not  things  that  I  created,  but  things  that  haunt  me. 
See  !  here  are  some  trifles  that  perhaps  will  please  you 
better.” 

She  gave  him  a  portfolio,  the  sketches  in  which  in¬ 
dicated  a  happier  mood  of  mind,  and  one,  it  is  to  be 
hoped,  more  truly  characteristic  of  the  artist.  Sup¬ 
posing  neither  of  these  classes  of  subject  to  show  any¬ 
thing  of  her  own  individuality,  Miriam  had  evidently 
a  great  scope  of  fancy,  and  a  singular  faculty  of  put¬ 
ting  what  looked  like  heart  into  her  productions.  The 
latter  sketches  were  domestic  and  common  scenes,  so 
finely  and  subtilely  idealized  that  they  seemed  such 
as  we  may  see  at  any  moment,  and  everywhere ;  while 
still  there  was  the  indefinable  something  added,  or 
taken  away,  which  makes  all  the  difference  between 
sordid  life  and  an  earthly  paradise.  The  feeling  and 
sympathy  in  all  of  them  were  deep  and  true.  There 
was  the  scene,  that  comes  once  in  every  life,  of  the 
lover  winning  the  soft  and  pure  avowal  of  bashful  af¬ 
fection  from  the  maiden  whose  slender  form  half  leans 
towards  his  arm,  half  shrinks  from  it,  we  know  not 
which.  There  was  wedded  affection  in  its  successive 
stages,  represented  in  a  series  of  delicately  conceived 
designs,  touched  with  a  holy  fire,  that  burned  from 
youth  to  age  in  those  two  hearts,  and  gave  one  iden¬ 
tical  beauty  to  the  faces  throughout  all  the  changes  of 
feature. 

There  was  a  drawing  of  an  infant’s  shoe,  half  worn 
out,  with  the  airy  print  of  the  blessed  foot  within  ;  a 
thing  that  would  make  a  mother  smile  or  weep  out 
of  the  very  depths  of  her  heart ;  and  yet  an  actual 
mother  would  not  have  been  likely  to  appreciate  the 


MIRIAM'S  STUDIO. 


63 


poetry  of  the  little  shoe,  until  Miriam  revealed  it  to 
her.  It  was  wonderful,  the  depth  and  force  with 
which  the  above,  and  other  kindred  subjects,  were  de¬ 
picted,  and  the  profound  significance  which  they  often 
acquired.  The  artist,  still  in  her  fresh  youth,  could 
not  probably  have  drawn  any  of  these  dear  and  rich 
experiences  from  her  own  life  ;  unless,  perchance,  that 
first  sketch  of  all,  the  avowal  of  maiden  affection,  were 
a  remembered  incident,  and  not  a  prophecy.  But  it  is 
more  delightful  to  believe  that,  from  first  to  last,  they 
were  the  productions  of  a  beautiful  imagination,  deal¬ 
ing  with  the  warm  and  pure  suggestions  of  a  woman’s 
heart,  and  thus  idealizing  a  truer  and  lovelier  picture 
of  the  life  that  belongs  to  woman,  than  an  actual  ac¬ 
quaintance  with  some  of  its  hard  and  dusty  facts  could 
have  inspired.  So  considered,  the  sketches  intimated 
such  a  force  and  variety  of  imaginative  sympathies  as 
would  enable  Miriam  to  fill  her  life  richly  with  the 
bliss  and  suffering  of  womanhood,  however  barren  it 
might  individually  be. 

There  was  one  observable  point,  indeed,  betokening 
that  the  artist  relinquished,  for  her  personal  self,  the 
happiness  which  she  could  so  profoundly  appreciate 
for  others.  In  all  those  sketches  of  common  life,  and 
the  affections  that  spiritualize  it,  a  figure  was  por¬ 
trayed  apart ;  now  it  peeped  between  the  branches  of 
a  shrubbery,  amid  which  two  lovers  sat ;  now  it  was 
looking  through  a  frosted  window,  from  the  outside, 
while  a  young  wedded  pair  sat  at  their  new  fireside 
within  ;  and  once  it  leaned  from  a  chariot,  which  six 
horses  were  whirling  onward  in  pomp  and  pride,  and 
gazed  at  a  scene  of  humble  enjoyment  by  a  cottage- 
door.  Always  it  was  the  same  figure,  and  always  de¬ 
picted  with  an  expression  of  deep  sadness ;  and  in 


64 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


every  instance,  slightly  as  they  were  brought  out,  the 
face  and  form  had  the  traits  of  Miriam’s  own. 

“  Do  you  like  these  sketches  better,  Donatello  ? 91 
asked  Miriam. 

“  Yes,”  said  Donatello,  rather  doubtfully. 

a  Not  much,  I  fear,”  responded  she,  laughing.  “And 
what  should  a  boy  like  you  —  a  Faun,  too  —  know 
about  the  joys  and  sorrows,  the  intertwining  light 
and  shadow,  of  human  life  ?  I  forgot  that  you  were 
a  Faun.  You  cannot  suffer  deeply  ;  therefore  you 
can  but  half  enjoy.  Here,  now,  is  a  subject  which 
you  can  better  appreciate.” 

The  sketch  represented  merely  a  rustic  dance,  but 
with  such  extravagance  of  fun  as  was  delightful  to  be¬ 
hold  ;  and  here  there  was  no  drawback,  except  that 
strange  sigh  and  sadness  which  always  come  when  we 
are  merriest. 

“  I  am  going  to  paint  the  picture  in  oils,”  said  the 
artist ;  “  and  I  want  you,  Donatello,  for  the  wildest 
dancer  of  them  all.  Will  you  sit  for  me,  some  day? 
—  or,  rather,  dance  for  me  ?  ” 

“  Oh,  most  gladly,  signorina !  ”  exclaimed  Donatello. 
“  See  ;  it  shall  be  like  this.” 

And  forthwith  he  began  to  dance,  and  flit  about  the 
studio,  like  an  incarnate  sprite  of  jollity,  pausing  at 
last  on  the  extremity  of  one  toe,  as  if  that  were  the 
only  portion  of  himself  whereby  his  frisky  nature 
could  come  in  contact  with  the  earth.  The  effect  in 
that  shadowy  chamber,  whence  the  artist  had  so  care¬ 
fully  excluded  the  sunshine,  was  as  enlivening  as  if 
one  bright  ray  had  contrived  to  shimmer  in  and  frolic 
around  the  walls,  and  finally  rest  just  in  the  centre  of 
the  floor. 

“  That  was  admirable !  ”  said  Miriam,  with  an  ap- 


MIRIAM'S  STUDIO. 


65 


proving'  smile.  “  If  I  can  catch  you  on  my  canvas,  it 
will  be  a  glorious  picture ;  only  I  am  afraid  you  will 
dance  out  of  it,  by  the  very  truth  of  the  representa¬ 
tion,  just  when  I  shall  have  given  it  the  last  touch. 
We  will  try  it  one  of  these  days.  And  now,  to  reward 
you  for  that  jolly  exhibition,  you  shall  see  what  has 
been  shown  to  no  one  else.” 

She  went  to  her  easel,  on  which  was  placed  a  pic¬ 
ture  with  its  back  turned  towards  the  spectator.  Re¬ 
versing  the  position,  there  appeared  the  portrait  of  a 
beautiful  woman,  such  as  one  sees  only  two  or  three, 
if  even  so  many  times,  in  all  a  lifetime  ;  so  beautiful, 
that  she  seemed  to  get  into  your  consciousness  and 
memory,  and  could  never  afterwards  be  shut  out,  but 
haunted  your  dreams,  for  pleasure  or  for  pain  ;  hold¬ 
ing  your  inner  realm  as  a  conquered  territory,  though 
without  deigning  to  make  herself  at  home  there. 

She  was  very  youthful,  and  had  what  was  usually 
thought  to  be  a  J ewish  aspect ;  a  complexion  in  which 
there  was  no  roseate  bloom,  yet  neither  was  it  pale  ; 
dark  eyes,  into  which  you  might  look  as  deeply  as  your 
glance  would  go,  and  still  be  conscious  of  a  depth  that 
you  had  not  sounded,  though  it  lay  open  to  the  day. 
She  had  black,  abundant  hair,  with  none  of  the  vulgar 
glossiness  of  other  women’s  sable  locks  ;  if  she  were 
really  of  Jewish  blood,  then  this  was  Jewish  hair,  and 
a  dark  glory  such  as  crowns  no  Christian  maiden’s 
head.  Gazing  at  this  portrait,  you  saw  what  Rachel 
might  have  been,  when  Jacob  deemed  her  worth  the 
wooing  seven  years,  and  seven  more  ;  or  perchance  she 
might  ripen  to  be  what  Judith  was,  when  she  van¬ 
quished  Holofernes  with  her  beauty,  and  slew  him  for 
too  much  adoring  it. 

Miriam  watched  Donatello’s  contemplation  of  the 

VOL.  VI. 


66 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


picture,  and  seeing  his  simple  rapture,  a  smile  of  pleas¬ 
ure  brightened  on  her  face,  mixed  with  a  little  scorn  ; 
at  least,  her  lips  curled,  and  her  eyes  gleamed,  as  if 
she  disdained  either  his  admiration  or  her  own  enjoy¬ 
ment  of  it. 

“Then  you  like  the  picture,  Donatello?”  she  asked. 
“  Oh,  beyond  what  I  can  tell !  ”  he  answered.  u  So 
beautiful !  —  so  beautiful !  ” 

“  And  do  you  recognize  the  likeness  ?  ” 

“  Signorina,”  exclaimed  Donatello,  turning  from  the 
picture  to  the  artist,  in  astonishment  that  she  should 
ask  the  question,  u  the  resemblance  is  as  little  to  be 
mistaken  as  if  you  had  bent  over  the  smooth  surface 
of  a  fountain,  and  possessed  the  witchcraft  to  call  forth 
the  image  that  you  made  there !  It  is  yourself  !  ” 
Donatello  said  the  truth ;  and  we  forbore  to  speak 
descriptively  of  Miriam’s  beauty  earlier  in  our  narra¬ 
tive,  because  we  foresaw  this  occasion  to  bring  it  per¬ 
haps  more  forcibly  before  the  reader. 

W e  know  not  whether  the  portrait  were  a  flattered 
likeness  ;  probably  not,  regarding  it  merely  as  the  de¬ 
lineation  of  a  lovely  face ;  although  Miriam,  like  all 
self-painters,  may  have  endowed  herself  with  certain 
graces  which  other  eyes  might  not  discern.  Artists 
are  fond  of  painting  their  own  portraits ;  and,  in  Flor¬ 
ence,  there  is  a  gallery  of  hundreds  of  them,  including 
the  most  illustrious,  in  all  of  which  there  are  autobi¬ 
ographical  characteristics,  so  to  speak ;  traits,  expres¬ 
sions,  loftinesses,  and  amenities,  which  would  have  been 
invisible,  had  they  not  been  painted  from  within.  Yet 
their  reality  and  truth  are  none  the  less.  Miriam,  in 
like  manner,  had  doubtless  conveyed  some  of  the  inti¬ 
mate  results  of  her  heart-knowledge  into  her  own  por¬ 
trait,  and  perhaps  wished  to  try  whether  they  would 


MIRIAM'S  STUDIO.  67 

be  perceptible  to  so  simple  and  natural  an  observer  as 
Donatello. 

44  Does  the  expression  please  you  ?  ”  she  asked. 

44  Yes,”  said  Donatello,  hesitatingly ;  44  if  it  would 
only  smile  so  like  the  sunshine  as  you  sometimes  do. 
No,  it  is  sadder  than  I  thought  at  first.  Cannot  you 
make  yourself  smile  a  little,  signorina  ?  ” 

44  A  forced  smile  is  uglier  than  a  frown,”  said  Miriam, 
a  bright,  natural  smile  breaking  out  over  her  face  even 
as  she  spoke. 

44  Oh,  catch  it  now !  ”  cried  Donatello,  clapping  his 
hands.  44  Let  it  shine  upon  the  picture  !  There  !  it 
has  vanished  already !  And  you  are  sad  again,  very 
sad  ;  and  the  picture  gazes  sadly  forth  at  me,  as  if 
some  evil  had  befallen  it  in  the  little  time  since  I 
looked  last.” 

44  How  perplexed  you  seem,  my  friend  !  ”  answered 
Miriam.  44 1  really  half  believe  you  are  a  Faun,  there 
is  such  a  mystery  and  terror  for  you  in  these  dark 
moods,  which  are  just  as  natural  as  daylight  to  us  peo¬ 
ple  of  ordinary  mould.  I  advise  you,  at  all  events,  to 
look  at  other  faces  with  those  innocent  and  happy  eyes, 
and  never  more  to  gaze  at  mine !  ” 

44  You  speak  in  vain,”  replied  the  young  man,  with 
a  deeper  emphasis  than  she  had  ever  before  heard  in 
his  voice ;  44  shroud  yourself  in  what  gloom  you  will,  I 
must  needs  follow  you.” 

44  Well,  well,  well,”  said  Miriam,  impatiently;  44  but 
leave  me  now ;  for  to  speak  plainly,  my  good  friend, 
you  grow  a  little  wearisome.  I  walk  this  afternoon  in 
the  Borghese  grounds.  Meet  me  there,  if  it  suits  your 
pleasure.” 


CHAPTER  VI. 


THE  VIRGIN’S  SHRINE. 

After  Donatello  had  left  the  studio,  Miriam  her¬ 
self  came  forth,  and  taking  her  way  through  some 
of  the  intricacies  of  the  city,  entered  what  might  be 
called  either  a  widening  of  a  street,  or  a  small  piazza. 
The  neighborhood  comprised  a  baker’s  oven,  emitting 
the  usual  fragrance  of  sour  bread ;  a  shoe-shop  ;  a 
linen-draper’s  shop  ;  a  pipe  and  cigar  shop  ;  a  lottery 
office ;  a  station  for  French  soldiers,  with  a  sentinel 
pacing  in  front ;  and  a  fruit  -  stand,  at  which  a  Ro¬ 
man  matron  was  selling  the  dried  kernels  of  chest¬ 
nuts,  wretched  little  figs,  and  some  bouquets  of  yester¬ 
day.  A  church,  of  course,  was  near  at  hand,  the  fa¬ 
cade  of  which  ascended  into  lofty  pinnacles,  whereon 
were  perched  two  or  three  winged  figures  of  stone, 
either  angelic  or  allegorical,  blowing  stone  trumpets 
in  close  vicinity  to  the  upper  windows  of  an  old  and 
shabby  palace.  This  palace  was  distinguished  by  a 
feature  not  very  common  in  the  architecture  of  Roman 
edifices  ;  that  is  to  say,  a  mediaeval  tower,  square,  mas¬ 
sive,  lofty,  and  battlemented  and  machicolated  at  the 
summit. 

At  one  of  the  angles  of  the  battlements  stood  a 
shrine  of  the  Virgin,  such  as  we  see  everywhere  at  the 
street-corners  of  Rome,  but  seldom  or  never,  except 
in  this  solitary  instance,  at  a  height  above  the  ordi¬ 
nary  level  of  men’s  views  and  aspirations.  Connected 


THE  VIRGIN'S  SHRINE. 


69 


with  this  old  tower  and  its  lofty  shrine,  there  is  a 
legend  which  we  cannot  here  pause  to  tell ;  but  for 
centuries  a  lamp  has  been  burning  before  the  Virgin’s 
image,  at  noon,  at  midnight,  and  at  all  hours  of  the 
twenty -four,  and  must  be  kept  burning  forever,  as 
long  as  the  tower  shall  stand:  or  else  the  tower  it¬ 
self,  the  palace,  and  whatever  estate  belongs  to  it, 
shall  pass  from  its  hereditary  possessor,  in  accordance 
with  an  ancient  vow,  and  become  the  property  of  the 
Church, 

As  Miriam  approached,  she  looked  upward,  and 
saw,  —  not,  indeed,  the  flame  of  the  never-dying  lamp, 
which  was  swallowed  up  in  the  broad  sunlight  that 
brightened  the  shrine,  but  a  flock  of  white  doves, 
skimming,  fluttering,  and  wheeling  about  the  topmost 
height  of  the  tower,  their  silver  wings  flashing  in  the 
pure  transparency  of  the  air.  Several  of  them  sat  on 
the  ledge  of  the  upper  window,  pushing  one  another 
off  by  their  eager  struggle  for  this  favorite  station, 
and  all  tapping  their  beaks  and  flapping  their  wings 
tumultuously  against  the  panes ;  some  had  alighted  in 
the  street,  far  below,  but  flew  hastily  upward,  at  the 
sound  of  the  window  being  thrust  ajar,  and  opening  in 
the  middle,  on  rusty  hinges,  as  Roman  windows  do. 

A  fair  young  girl,  dressed  in  white,  showed  herself 
at  the  aperture  for  a  single  instant,  and  threw  forth 
as  much  as  her  two  small  hands  could  hold  of  some 
kind  of  food,  for  the  flock  of  eleemosynary  doves.  It 
seemed  greatly  to  the  taste  of  the  feathered  people ; 
for  they  tried  to  snatch  beakfuls  of  it  from  her  grasp, 
caught  it  in  the  air,  and  rushed  downward  after  it 
upon  the  pavement. 

“  What  a  pretty  scene  this  is,”  thought  Miriam,  with 
a  kindly  smile,  “  and  how  like  a  dove  she  is  herself, 


70 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


the  fair,  pure  creature  !  The  other  doves  know  her 
for  a  sister,  I  am  sure.” 

Miriam  passed  beneath  the  deep  portal  of  the  pal¬ 
ace,  and  turning  to  the  left,  began  to  mount  flight 
after  flight  of  a  staircase,  which,  for  the  loftiness  of 
its  aspiration,  was  worthy  to  be  Jacob’s  ladder,  or,  at 
all  events,  the  staircase  of  the  Tower  of  Babel.  The 
city  bustle,  which  is  heard  even  in  Rome,  the  rumble 
of  wheels  over  the  uncomfortable  paving  -  stones,  the 
hard  harsh  cries  reechoing  in  the  high  and  narrow 
streets,  grew  faint  and  died  away ;  as  the  turmoil  of 
the  world  will  always  die,  if  we  set  our  faces  to  climb 
heavenward.  Higher,  and  higher  still  ;  and  now, 
glancing  through  the  successive  windows  that  threw  in 
their  narrow  light  upon  the  stairs,  her  view  stretched 
across  the  roofs  of  the  city,  unimpeded  even  by  the 
stateliest  palaces.  Only  the  domes  of  churches  as¬ 
cend  into  this  airy  region,  and  hold  up  their  golden 
crosses  on  a  level  with  her  eye  ;  except,  that,  ont  of 
the  very  heart  of  Rome,  the  column  of  Antoninus 
thrusts  itself  upward,  with  St.  Paul  upon  its  summit, 
the  sole  human  form  that  seems  to  have  kept  her  com¬ 
pany. 

Finally,  the  staircase  came  to  an  end  ;  save  that, 
on  one  side  of  the  little  entry  where  it  terminated,  a 
flight  of  a  dozen  steps  gave  access  to  the  roof  of  the 
tower  and  the  legendary  shrine.  On  the  other  side 
was  a  door,  at  which  Miriam  knocked,  but  rather  as  a 
friendly  announcement  of  her  presence  than  with  any 
doubt  of  hospitable  welcome ;  for,  awaiting  no  re¬ 
sponse,  she  lifted  the  latch  and  entered. 

“  What  a  hermitage  you  have  found  for  yourself, 
dear  Hilda !  ”  she  exclaimed.  “  You  breathe  sweet 
air,  above  all  the  evil  scents  of  Rome ;  and  even  so, 


THE  VIRGIN'S  SHRINE. 


71 


in  your  maiden  elevation,  you  dwell  above  our  vanities 
and  passions,  our  moral  dust  and  mud,  with  the  doves 
and  the  angels  for  your  nearest  neighbors.  I  should 
not  wonder  if  the  Catholics  were  to  make  a  saint  of 
you,  like  your  namesake  of  old ;  especially  as  you  have 
almost  avowed  yourself  of  their  religion,  by  under¬ 
taking  to  keep  the  lamp  alight  before  the  Virgin’s 
shrine.” 

“No,  no,  Miriam  !  ”  said  Hilda,  who  had  come  joy¬ 
fully  forward  to  greet  her  friend.  “  You  must  not 
call  me  a  Catholic.  A  Christian  girl  —  even  a  daugh¬ 
ter  of  the  Puritans  —  may  surely  pay  honor  to  the  idea 
of  divine  Womanhood,  without  giving  up  the  faith  of 
her  forefathers.  But  how  kind  you  are  to  climb  into 
my  dove-cote !  ” 

“  It  is  no  trifling  proof  of  friendship,  indeed,”  an¬ 
swered  Miriam ;  “I  should  think  there  were  three 
hundred  stairs  at  least.” 

“  But  it  will  do  you  good,”  continued  Hilda.  “  A 
height  of  some  fifty  feet  above  the  roofs  of  Rome  gives 
me  all  the  advantages  that  I  could  get  from  fifty 
miles  of  distance.  The  air  so  exhilarates  my  spirits, 
that  sometimes  I  feel  half  inclined  to  attempt  a  flight 
from  the  top  of  my  tower,  in  the  faith  that  I  should 
float  upward.” 

“  Oh,  pray  don’t  try  it !  ”  said  Miriam,  laughing. 
“  If  it  should  turn  out  that  you  are  less  than  an  an¬ 
gel,  you  would  find  the  stones  of  the  Roman  pavement 
very  hard ;  and  if  an  angel,  indeed,  I  am  afraid  you 
would  never  come  down  among  us  again.” 

This  young  American  girl  was  an  example  of  the 
freedom  of  life  which  it  is  possible  for  a  female  artist 
to  enjoy  at  Rome.  She  dwelt  in  her  tower,  as  free  to 
descend  into  the  corrupted  atmosphere  of  the  city  be- 


72 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


neath,  as  one  of  her  companion  doves  to  fly  downward 
into  the  street ;  —  all  alone,  perfectly  independent,  un¬ 
der  her  own  sole  guardianship,  unless  watched  over  by 
the  Virgin,  whose  shrine  she  tended ;  doing  what  she 
liked  without  a  suspicion  or  a  shadow  upon  the  snowy 
whiteness  of  her  fame.  The  customs  of  artist  life 
bestow  such  liberty  upon  the  sex,  which  is  elsewhere 
restricted  within  so  much  narrower  limits ;  and  it  is 
perhaps  an  indication  that,  whenever  we  admit  women 
to  a  wider  scope  of  pursuits  and  professions,  we  must 
also  remove  the  shackles  of  our  present  conventional 
rules,  which  would  then  become  an  insufferable  re¬ 
straint  on  either  maid  or  wife.  The  system  seems  to 
work  unexceptionably  in  Rome ;  and  in  many  other 
cases,  as  in  Hilda’s,  purity  of  heart  and  life  are  al¬ 
lowed  to  assert  themselves,  and  to  be  their  own  proof 
and  security,  to  a  degree  unknown  in  the  society  of 
other  cities. 

Hilda,  in  her  native  land,  had  early  shown  what  was 
pronounced  by  connoisseurs  a  decided  genius  for  the 
pictorial  art.  Even  in  her  school-days  —  still  not  so 
very  distant —  she  had  produced  sketches  that  were 
seized  upon  by  men  of  taste,  and  hoarded  as  among 
the  choicest  treasures  of  their  portfolios ;  scenes  deli¬ 
cately  imagined,  lacking,  perhaps,  the  reality  which 
comes  only  from  a  close  acquaintance  with  life,  but  so 
softly  touched  with  feeling  and  fancy,  that  you  seemed 
to  be  looking  at  humanity  with  angels’  eyes.  With 
years  and  experience  she  might  be  expected  to  attain 
a  darker  and  more  forcible  touch,  which  would  impart 
to  her  designs  the  relief  they  needed.  Had  Hilda  re¬ 
mained  in  her  own  country,  it  is  not  improbable  that 
she  might  have  produced  original  works  worthy  to 
hang  in  that  gallery  of  native  art  which,  we  hope,  is 


THE  VIRGIN'S  SHRINE. 


73 


destined  to  extend  its  rich  length  through  many  fut¬ 
ure  centuries.  An  orphan,  however,  without  near  rela¬ 
tives,  and  possessed  of  a  little  property,  she  had  found 
it  within  her  possibilities  to  come  to  Italy ;  that  cen¬ 
tral  clime,  whither  the  eyes  and  the  heart  of  every  ar¬ 
tist  turn,  as  if  pictures  could  not  be  made  to  glow  in 
any  other  atmosphere,  as  if  statues  could  not  assume 
grace  and  expression,  save  in  that  land  of  whitest 
marble. 

Hilda’s  gentle  courage  had  brought  her  safely  over 
land  and  sea ;  her  mild,  unflagging  perseverance  had 
made  a  place  for  her  in  the  famous  city,  even  like  a 
flower  that  finds  a  chink  for  itself,  and  a  little  earth 
to  grow  in,  on  whatever  ancient  wall  its  slender  roots 
may  fasten.  Here  she  dwelt,  in  her  tower,  possessing 
a  friend  or  two  in  Rome,  but  no  home  companion  ex¬ 
cept  the  flock  of  doves,  whose  cote  was  in  a  ruinous 
chamber  contiguous  to  her  own.  They  soon  became 
as  familiar  with  the  fair-haired  Saxon  girl  as  if  she 
were  a  born  sister  of  their  brood;  and  her  custom¬ 
ary  white  robe  bore  such  an  analogy  to  their  snowy 
plumage  that  the  confraternity  of  artists  called  Hilda 
the  Dove,  and  recognized  her  aerial  apartment  as  the 
Dove-cote.  And  while  the  other  doves  flew  far  and 
wide  in  quest  of  what  was  good  for  them,  Hilda  like¬ 
wise  spread  her  wings,  and  sought  such  ethereal  and 
imaginative  sustenance  as  God  ordains  for  creatures 
of  her  kind. 

W e  know  not  whether  the  result  of  her  Italian  stud¬ 
ies,  so  far  as  it  could  yet  be  seen,  will  be  accepted  as 
a  good  or  desirable  one.  Certain  it  is,  that  since  her 
arrival  in  the  pictorial  land,  Hilda  seemed  to  have 
entirely  lost  the  impulse  of  original  design,  which 
brought  her  thither.  No  doubt  the  girl’s  early  dreams 


74 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI . 


had  been  of  sending  forms  and  hues  of  beauty  into 
the  visible  world  out  of  her  own  mind ;  of  compelling 
scenes  of  poetry  and  history  to  live  before  men’s  eyes, 
through  conceptions  and  by  methods  individual  to  her¬ 
self.  But  more  and  more,  as  she  grew  familiar  with 
the  miracles  of  art  that  enrich  so  many  galleries  in 
Borne,  Hilda  had  ceased  to  consider  herself  as  an  orig¬ 
inal  artist.  No  wonder  that  this  change  should  have 
befallen  her.  She  was  endowed  with  a  deep  and  sen¬ 
sitive  faculty  of  appreciation  ;  she  had  the  gift  of  dis¬ 
cerning  and  worshipping  excellence  in  a  most  unusual 
measure.  No  other  person,  it  is  probable,  recognized 
so  adequately,  and  enjoyed  with  such  deep  delight,  the 
pictorial  wonders  that  were  here  displayed.  She  saw 
—  no,  not  saw,  but  felt  —  through  and  through  a  pic¬ 
ture  ;  she  bestowed  upon  it  all  the  warmth  and  rich¬ 
ness  of  a  woman’s  sympathy ;  not  by  any  intellectual 
effort,  but  by  this  strength  of  heart,  and  this  guiding 
light  of  sympathy,  she  went  straight  to  the  central 
point,  in  which  the  master  had  conceived  his  work. 
Thus,  she  viewed  it,  as  it  were,  with  his  own  eyes,  and 
hence  her  comprehension  of  any  picture  that  interested 
her  was  perfect. 

This  power  and  depth  of  appreciation  depended 
partly  upon  Hilda’s  physical  organization,  which  was 
at  once  healthful  and  exquisitely  delicate ;  and,  con¬ 
nected  with  this  advantage,  she  had  a  command  of 
hand,  a  nicety  and  force  of  touch,  which  is  an  endow¬ 
ment  separate  from  pictorial  genius,  though  indispen¬ 
sable  to  its  exercise. 

It  has  probably  happened  in  many  other  instances, 
as  it  did  in  Hilda’s  case,  that  she  ceased  to  aim  at 
original  achievement  in  consequence  of  the  very  gifts 
which  so  exquisitely  fitted  her  to  profit  by  familiarity 


THE  VIRGIN  '&  SHRINE. 


75 


with  the  works  of  the  mighty  old  masters.  Reverenc¬ 
ing  these  wonderful  men  so  deeply,  she  was  too  grate¬ 
ful  for  all  they  bestowed  upon  her,  too  loyal,  too  hum¬ 
ble,  in  their  awful  presence,  to  think  of  enrolling 
herself  in  their  society.  Beholding  the  miracles  of 
beauty  which  they  had  achieved,  the  world  seemed  al¬ 
ready  rich  enough  in  original  designs,  and  nothing 
more  was  so  desirable  as  to  diffuse  those  self-same 
beauties  more  widely  among  mankind.  All  the  youth¬ 
ful  hopes  and  ambitions,  the  fanciful  ideas  which  she 
had  brought  from  home,  of  great  pictures  to  be  con¬ 
ceived  in  her  feminine  mind,  were  flung  aside,  and,  so 
far  as  those  most  intimate  with  her  could  discern,  re¬ 
linquished  without  a  sigh.  All  that  she  would  hence¬ 
forth  attempt  —  and  that  most  reverently,  not  to  say 
religiously  —  was  to  catch  and  reflect  some  of  the 
glory  which  had  been  shed  upon  canvas  from  the  im¬ 
mortal  pencils  of  old. 

So  Hilda  became  a  copyist :  in  the  Pinacotheca  of 
the  Vatican,  in  the  galleries  of  the  Pamfili-Doria  pal¬ 
ace,  the  Borghese,  the  Corsini,  the  Sciarra,  her  easel 
was  set  up  before  many  a  famous  picture  by  Guido, 
Domenichino,  Raphael,  and  the  devout  painters  of 
earlier  schools  than  these.  Other  artists  and  visitors 
from  foreign  lands  beheld  the  slender,  girlish  figure 
in  front  of  some  world-known  work,  absorbed,  uncon¬ 
scious  of  everything  around  her,  seeming  to  live  only 
in  what  she  sought  to  do.  They  smiled,  no  doubt,  at 
the  audacity  which  led  her  to  dream  of  copying  those 
mighty  achievements.  But,  if  they  paused  to  look 
over  her  shoulder,  and  had  sensibility  enough  to  un¬ 
derstand  what  was  before  their  eyes,  they  soon  felt 
inclined  to  believe  that  the  spirits  of  the  old  masters 
were  hovering  over  Hilda,  and  guiding  her  delicate 


76 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


white  hand.  In  truth,  from  whatever  realm  of  bliss 
and  many-colored  beauty  those  spirits  might  descend, 
it  would  have  been  no  unworthy  errand  to  help  so 
gentle  and  pure  a  worshipper  of  their  genius  in  giving 
the  last  divine  touch  to  her  repetitions  of  their  works. 

Her  copies  were  indeed  marvellous.  Accuracy  was 
not  the  phrase  for  them  ;  a  Chinese  copy  is  accurate. 
Hilda’s  had  that  evanescent  and  ethereal  life — that 
flitting  fragrance,  as  it  were,  of  the  originals  —  which 
it  is  as  difficult  to  catch  and  retain  as  it  would  be  for 
a  sculptor  to  get  the  very  movement  and  varying  color 
of  a  living  man  into  his  marble  bust.  Only  by  watch¬ 
ing  the  efforts  of  the  most  skilful  copyists — men  who 
spend  a  lifetime,  as  some  of  them  do,  in  multiplying 
copies  of  a  single  picture  —  and  observing  how  invari¬ 
ably  they  leave  out  just  the  indefinable  charm  that  in¬ 
volves  the  last,  inestimable  value,  can  we  understand 
the  difficulties  of  the  task  which  they  undertake. 

It  was  not  Hilda’s  general  practice  to  attempt  repro¬ 
ducing  the  whole  of  a  great  picture,  but  to  select  some 
high,  noble,  and  delicate  portion  of  it,  in  which  the 
spirit  and  essence  of  the  picture  culminated :  the  Vir¬ 
gin’s  celestial  sorrow,  for  example,  or  a  hovering  an¬ 
gel,  imbued  with  immortal  light,  or  a  saint  with  the 
glow  of  heaven  in  his  dying  face,  —  and  these  would 
be  rendered  with  her  whole  soul.  If  a  picture  had 
darkened  into  an  indistinct  shadow  through  time  and 
neglect,  or  had  been  injured  by  cleaning,  or  retouched 
by  some  profane  hand,  she  seemed  to  possess  the 
faculty  of  seeing  it  in  its  pristine  glory.  The  copy 
would  come  from  her  hands  with  what  the  beholder 
felt  must  be  the  light  which  the  old  master  had  left 
upon  the  original  in  bestowing  his  final  and  most 
ethereal  touch.  In  some  instances  even  (at  least,  so 


THE  VIRGIN'S  SHRINE. 


77 


those  believed  who  best  appreciated  Hilda’s  power  and 
sensibility)  she  had  been  enabled  to  execute  what  the 
great  master  had  conceived  in  his  imagination,  but  had 
not  so  perfectly  succeeded  in  putting  upon  canvas  ;  a 
result  surely  not  impossible  when  such  depth  of  sympa¬ 
thy  as  she  possessed  was  assisted  by  the  delicate  skill 
and  accuracy  of  her  slender  hand.  In  such  cases  the 
girl  was  but  a  finer  instrument,  a  more  exquisitely  ef¬ 
fective  piece  of  mechanism,  by  the  help  of  which  the 
spirit  of  some  great  departed  painter  now  first  achieved 
his  ideal,  centuries  after  his  own  earthly  hand,  that 
other  tool,  had  turned  to  dust. 

Not  to  describe  her  as  too  much  a  wonder,  however, 
Hilda,  or  the  Dove,  as  her  well-wishers  half  laughingly 
delighted  to  call  her,  had  been  pronounced  by  good 
judges  incomparably  the  best  copyist  in  Rome.  After 
minute  examination  of  her  works,  the  most  skilful 
artists  declared  that  she  had  been  led  to  her  results 
by  following  precisely  the  same  process  step  by  step 
through  which  the  original  painter  had  trodden  to  the 
development  of  his  idea.  Other  copyists  —  if  such 
they  are  worthy  to  be  called  —  attempt  only  a  super¬ 
ficial  imitation.  Copies  of  the  old  masters  in  this 
sense  are  produced  by  thousands  ;  there  are  artists,  as 
we  have  said,  who  spend  their  lives  in  painting  the 
works,  or  perhaps  one  single  work,  of  one  illustrious 
painter  over  and  over  again  :  thus  they  convert  them¬ 
selves  into  Guido  machines,  or  Raphaelic  machines. 
Their  performances,  it  is  true,  are  often  wonderfully 
deceptive  to  a  careless  eye  ;  but  working  entirely  from 
the  outside,  and  seeking  only  to  reproduce  the  surface, 
these  men  are  sure  to  leave  out  that  indefinable  noth¬ 
ing,  that  inestimable  something,  that  constitutes  the 
life  and  soul  through  which  the  picture  gets  its  im* 


78 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


mortality.  Hilda  was  no  such  machine  as  this  ;  she 
wrought  religiously,  and  therefore  wrought  a  miracle. 

It  strikes  us  that  there  is  something  far  higher  and 
nobler  in  all  this,  in  her  thus  sacrificing  herself  to  the 
devout  recognition  of  the  highest  excellence  in  art, 
than  there  would  have  been  in  cultivating  her  not 
inconsiderable  share  of  talent  for  the  production  of 
works  from  her  own  ideas.  She  might  have  set  up 
for  herself,  and  won  no  ignoble  name  ;  she  might  have 
helped  to  fill  the  already  crowded  and  cumbered  world 
with  pictures,  not  destitute  of  merit,  but  falling  short, 
if  by  ever  so  little,  of  the  best  that  has  been  done ;  she 
might  thus  have  gratified  some  tastes  that  were  in¬ 
capable  of  appreciating  Raphael.  But  this  could  be 
done  only  by  lowering  the  standard  of  art  to  the  com¬ 
prehension  of  the  spectator.  She  chose  the  better  and 
loftier  and  more  unselfish  part,  laying  her  individual 
hopes,  her  fame,  her  prospects  of  enduring  remem¬ 
brance,  at  the  feet  of  those  great  departed  ones,  whom 
she  so  loved  and  venerated  ;  and  therefore  the  world 
was  the  richer  for  this  feeble  girl. 

Since  the  beauty  and  glory  of  a  great  picture  are 
confined  within  itself,  she  won  out  that  glory  by  pa¬ 
tient  faith  and  self-devotion,  and  multiplied  it  for 
mankind.  From  the  dark,  chill  corner  of  a  gallery,  — 
from  some  curtained  chapel  in  a  church,  where  the 
light  came  seldom  and  aslant,  —  from  the  prince’s 
carefully  guarded  cabinet,  where  not  one  eye  in  thou¬ 
sands  was  permitted  to  behold  it,  —  she  brought  the 
wondrous  picture  into  daylight,  and  gave  all  its  magic 
splendor  for  the  enjoyment  of  the  world.  Hilda’s  fac¬ 
ulty  of  genuine  admiration  is  one  of  the  rarest  to  be 
found  in  human  nature  ;  and  let  us  try  to  recompense 
her  in  kind  by  admiring  her  generous  self-surrender, 


THE  VIRGIN’S  SHRINE. 


79 


and  her  brave,  humble  magnanimity  in  choosing  to  be 
the  handmaid  of  those  old  magicians,  instead  of  a 
minor  enchantress  within  a  circle  of  her  own. 

The  handmaid  of  Raphael,  whom  she  loved  with  a 
virgin’s  love!  Would  it  have  been  worth  Hilda’s 
while  to  relinquish  this  office  for  the  sake  of  giving 
the  world  a  picture  or  two  which  it  would  call  orig¬ 
inal  ;  pretty  fancies  of  snow  and  moonlight ;  the  coun¬ 
terpart  in  picture  of  so  many  feminine  achievements 
in  literature ! 


CHAPTER  VII. 


BEATRICE. 

Miriam  was  glad  to  find  the  Dove  in  her  turret* 
home  ;  for  being  endowed  with  an  infinite  activity, 
and  taking  exquisite  delight  in  the  sweet  labor  of 
which  her  life  was  full,  it  was  Hilda’s  practice  to  flee 
abroad  betimes,  and  haunt  the  galleries  till  dusk. 
Happy  were  those  (but  they  were  very  few)  whom  she 
ever  chose  to  be  the  companions  of  her  day ;  they  saw 
the  art-treasures  of  Rome,  under  her  guidance,  as  they 
had  never  seen  them  before.  Not  that  Hilda  could 
dissertate,  or  talk  learnedly  about  pictures ;  she  would 
probably  have  been  puzzled  by  the  technical  terms  of 
her  own  art.  Not  that  she  had  much  to  say  about 
what  she  most  profoundly  admired ;  but  even  her  si¬ 
lent  sympathy  was  so  powerful  that  it  drew  your  own 
along  with  it,  endowing  you  with  a  second-sight  that 
enabled  you  to  see  excellences  with  almost  the  depth 
and  delicacy  of  her  own  perceptions. 

All  the  Anglo-Saxon  denizens  of  Rome,  by  this  time, 
knew  Hilda  by  sight.  Unconsciously,  the  poor  child 
had  become  one  of  the  spectacles  of  the  Eternal  City, 
and  was  often  pointed  out  to  strangers,  sitting  at  her 
easel  among  the  wild-bearded  young  men,  the  white- 
haired  old  ones,  and  the  shabbily  dressed,  painfully 
plain  women,  who  make  up  the  throng  of  copyists. 
The  old  custodes  knew  her  well,  and  watched  over  her 

their  own  child.  Sometimes  a  young  artist,  instead 


BEATRICE. 


81 


of  going  on  with  a  copy  of  the  picture  before  which  he 
had  placed  his  easel,  would  enrich  his  canvas  with  an 
original  portrait  of  Hilda  at  her  work.  A  lovelier  sub¬ 
ject  could  not  have  been  selected,  nor  one  which  re¬ 
quired  nicer  skill  and  insight  in  doing  it  anything  like 
justice.  She  was  pretty  at  all  times,  in  our  native 
New  England  style,  with  her  light-brown  ringlets,  her 
delicately  tinged,  but  healthful  cheek,  her  sensitive, 
intelligent,  yet  most  feminine  and  kindly  face.  But, 
every  few  moments,  this  pretty  and  girlish  face  grew 
beautiful  and  striking,  as  some  inward  thought  and 
feeling  brightened,  rose  to  the  surface,  and  then,  as  it 
were,  passed  out  of  sight  again ;  so  that,  taking  into 
view  this  constantly  recurring  change,  it  really  seemed 
as  if  Hilda  were  only  visible  by  the  sunshine  of  her 
soul. 

In  other  respects,  she  was  a  good  subject  for  a  por> 
trait,  being  distinguished  by  a  gentle  picturesqueness, 
which  was  perhaps  unconsciously  bestowed  by  some 
minute  peculiarity  of  dress,  such  as  artists  seldom  fail 
to  assume.  The  effect  was  to  make  her  appear  like 
an  inhabitant  of  picture-land,  a  partly  ideal  creature, 
not  to  be  handled,  nor  even  approached  too  closely. 
In  her  feminine  self,  Hilda  was  natural,  and  of  pleas¬ 
ant  deportment,  endowed  with  a  mild  cheerfulness  of 
temper,  not  overflowing  with  animal  spirits,  but  never 
long  despondent.  There  was  a  certain  simplicity  that 
made  every  one  her  friend,  but  it  was  combined  with  a 
subtile  attribute  of  reserve,  that  insensibly  kept  those 
at  a  distance  who  were  not  suited  to  her  sphere. 

Miriam  was  the  dearest  friend  whom  she  had  ever 
known.  Being  a  year  or  two  the  elder,  of  longer  ac¬ 
quaintance  with  Italy,  and  better  fitted  to  deal  with 
its  crafty  and  selfish  inhabitants,  she  had  helped  Hilda 

VOL.  VJ. 


82 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


to  arrange  her  way  of  life,  and  had  encouraged  her 
through  those  first  weeks,  when  Rome  is  so  dreary  to 
every  new-comer. 

u  But  how  luckily  that  you  are  at  home  to-day,” 
said  Miriam,  continuing  the  conversation  which  was 
begun,  many  pages  back.  “I  hardly  hoped  to  find 
you,  though  I  had  a  favor  to  ask,  —  a  commission  to 
put  into  your  charge.  But  what  picture  is  this  ?  ” 

“  See !  ”  said  Hilda,  taking  her  friend’s  hand,  and 
leading  her  in  front  of  the  easel.  “  I  wanted  your 
opinion  of  it.” 

“  If  you  have  really  succeeded,”  observed  Miriam, 
recognizing  the  picture  at  the  first  glance,  “  it  will  be 
the  greatest  miracle  you  have  yet  achieved.” 

The  picture  represented  simply  a  female  head ;  a 
very  youthful,  girlish,  perfectly  beautiful  face,  envel¬ 
oped  in  white  drapery,  from  beneath  which  strayed  a 
lock  or  two  of  what  seemed  a  rich,  though  hidden  lux¬ 
uriance  of  auburn  hair.  The  eyes  were  large  and 
brown,  and  met  those  of  the  spectator,  but  evidently 
with  a  strange,  ineffectual  effort  to  escape.  There 
was  a  little  redness  about  the  eyes,  very  slightly  indi¬ 
cated,  so  that  you  would  question  whether  or  no  the 
girl  had  been  weeping.  The  whole  face  was  quiet ; 
there  was  no  distortion  or  disturbance  of  any  single 
feature ;  nor  was  it  easy  to  see  why  the  expression 
was  not  cheerful,  or  why  a  single  touch  of  the  artist’s 
pencil  should  not  brighten  it  into  joyousness.  But, 
in  fact,  it  was  the  very  saddest  picture  ever  painted 
or  conceived ;  it  involved  an  unfathomable  depth  of 
sorrow,  the  sense  of  which  came  to  the  observer  by  a 
sort  of  intuition.  It  was  a  sorrow  that  removed  this 
beautiful  girl  out  of  the  sphere  of  humanity,  and  set 
her  in  a  far-off  region,  the  remoteness  of  which  — 


BE  A  TRICE.  83 

while  yet  her  face  is  so  close  before  us  —  makes  us 
shiver  as  at  a  spectre. 

“  Yes,  Hilda,”  said  her  friend,  after  closely  examin¬ 
ing  the  picture,  “  you  have  done  nothing  else  so  won¬ 
derful  as  this.  But  by  what  unheard-of  solicitations  or 
secret  interest  have  you  obtained  leave  to  copy  Guido’s 
Beatrice  Cenci  ?  It  is  an  unexampled  favor  ;  and  the 
impossibility  of  getting  a  genuine  copy  has  filled  the 
Roman  picture-shops  with  Beatrices,  gay,  grievous,  or 
coquettish,  but  never  a  true  one  among  them.” 

“  There  has  been  one  exquisite  copy,  I  have  heard,” 
said  Hilda,  “by  an  artist  capable  of  appreciating  the 
spirit  of  the  picture.  It  was  Thompson,  who  brought 
it  away  piecemeal,  being  forbidden  (like  the  rest  of 
us)  to  set  up  his  easel  before  it.  As  for  me,  I  knew 
the  Prince  Barberini  would  be  deaf  to  all  entreaties ; 
so  I  had  no  resource  but  to  sit  down  before  the  pic¬ 
ture,  day  after  day,  and  let  it  sink  into  my  heart.  I 
do  believe  it  is  now  photographed  there.  It  is  a  sad 
face  to  keep  so  close  to  one’s  heart ;  only,  what  is  so 
very  beautiful  can  never  be  quite  a  pain.  W ell ;  after 
studying  it  in  this  way,  I  know  not  how  many  times,  I 
came  home,  and  have  done  my  best  to  transfer  the 
image  to  canvas.” 

“  Here  it  is  then,”  said  Miriam,  contemplating  Hil¬ 
da’s  work  with  great  interest  and  delight,  mixed  with 
the  painful  sympathy  that  the  picture  excited.  “  Ev¬ 
erywhere  we  see  oil-paintings,  crayon-sketches,  cameos, 
engravings,  lithographs,  pretending  to  be  Beatrice,  and 
representing  the  poor  girl  with  blubbered  eyes,  a  leer 
of  coquetry,  a  merry  look  as  if  she  were  dancing,  a 
piteous  look  as  if  she  were  beaten,  and  twenty  other 
modes  of  fantastic  mistake.  But  here  is  Guido’s  very 
Beatrice ;  she  that  slept  in  the  dungeon,  and  awoke, 


84 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


betimes,  to  ascend  the  scaffold.  And  now  that  you 
have  done  it,  Hilda,  can  you  interpret  what  the  feeb 
ing  is,  that  gives  this  picture  such  a  mysterious  force  ? 
For  my  part,  though  deeply  sensible  of  its  influence,  I 
cannot  seize  it.” 

“  Nor  can  I,  in  words,”  replied  her  friend.  “  But 
while  I  was  painting  her,  I  felt  all  the  time  as  if  she 
were  trying  to  escape  from  my  gaze.  She  knows  that 
her  sorrow  is  so  strange  and  so  immense,  that  she 
ought  to  be  solitary  forever,  both  for  the  world’s  sake 
and  her  own  ;  and  this  is  the  reason  we  feel  such  a  dis¬ 
tance  between  Beatrice  and  ourselves,  even  when  our 
eyes  meet  hers.  It  is  infinitely  heart-breaking  to  meet 
her  glance,  and  to  feel  that  nothing  can  be  done  to 
help  or  comfort  her  ;  neither  does  she  ask  help  or  com¬ 
fort,  knowing  the  hopelessness  of  her  case  better  than 
we  do.  She  is  a  fallen  angel,  —  fallen,  and  yet  sin¬ 
less;  and  it  is  only  this  depth  of  sorrow,  with  its 
weight  and  darkness,  that  keeps  her  down  upon  earth, 
and  brings  her  within  our  view  even  while  it  sets  her 
beyond  our  reach.” 

“You  deem  her  sinless?”  asked  Miriam;  “that  is 
not  so  plain  to  me.  If  I  can  pretend  to  see  at  all  into 
that  dim  region,  whence  she  gazes  so  strangely  and 
sadly  at  us,  Beatrice’s  own  conscience  does  not  acquit 
her  of  something  evil,  and  never  to  be  forgiven !  ” 

“  Sorrow  so  black  as  hers  oppresses  her  very  nearly 
as  sin  would,”  said  Hilda. 

“  Then,”  inquired  Miriam,  “  do  you  think  that  there 
was  no  sin  in  the  deed  for  which  she  suffered  ?  ” 

“  Ah  !  ”  replied  Hilda,  shuddering,  “  I  really  had 
quite  forgotten  Beatrice’s  history,  and  was  thinking  of 
her  only  as  the  picture  seems  to  reveal  her  character. 
Yes,  yes ;  it  was  terrible  guilt,  an  inexpiable  crime, 


86 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


it  any  more.  Do  you  know,  I  have  come  to  you  this 
morning  on  a  small  matter  of  business.  Will  you  un¬ 
dertake  it  for  me  ?  ” 

“  Oh,  certainly,”  said  Hilda,  laughing ;  “  if  you 
choose  to  trust  me  with  business.” 

“  Nay,  it  is  not  a  matter  of  any  difficulty,”  answered 
Miriam ;  “  merely  to  take  charge  of  this  packet,  and 
keep  it  for  me  awhile.” 

“  But  why  not  keep  it  yourself  ?  ”  ask  Hilda. 

“  Partly  because  it  will  be  safer  in  your  charge,” 
said  her  friend.  “  I  am  a  careless  sort  of  person  in 
ordinary  things  ;  while  you,  for  all  you  dwell  so  high 
above  the  world,  have  certain  little  housewifely  ways 
of  accuracy  and  order.  The  packet  is  of  some  slight 
importance ;  and  yet,  it  may  be,  I  shall  not  ask  you 
for  it  again.  In  a  week  or  two,  you  know,  I  am  leav¬ 
ing  Rome.  You,  setting  at  defiance  the  malarial  fever, 
mean  to  stay  here  and  haunt  your  beloved  galleries 
through  the  summer.  Now,  four  months  hence,  un¬ 
less  you  hear  more  from  me,  I  would  have  you  deliver 
the  packet  according  to  its  address.” 

Hilda  read  the  direction  ;  it  was  to  Signore  Luca 
Barboni,  at  the  Palazzo  Cenci,  third  piano. 

“I  will  deliver  it  with  my  own  hand,”  said  she, 
“precisely  four  months  from  to-day,  unless  you  bid 
me  to  the  contrary.  Perhaps  I  shall  meet  the  ghost 
of  Beatrice  in  that  grim  old  palace  of  her  forefathers.” 

“In  that  case,”  rejoined  Miriam,  “do  not  fail  to 
speak  to  her,  and  try  to  win  her  confidence.  Poor 
thing!  she  would  be  all  the  better  for  pouring  her 
heart  out  freely,  and  would  be  glad  to  do  it,  if  she 
were  sure  of  sympathy.  It  irks  my  brain  and  heart  to 
think  of  her,  all  shut  up  within  herself.”  She  with¬ 
drew  the  cloth  that  Hilda  had  drawn  over  the  picture, 


BEATRICE. 


87 


and  took  another  long  look  at  it,  — 44  Poor  sister  Bea¬ 
trice  !  for  she  was  still  a  woman,  Hilda,  still  a  sister, 
be  her  sin  or  sorrow  what  they  might.  How  well  you 
have  done  it,  Hilda !  I  know  not  whether  Guido  will 
thank  you,  or  be  jealous  of  your  rivalship.” 

44  Jealous,  indeed  !  ”  exclaimed  Hilda.  44  If  Guido 
had  not  wrought  through  me,  my  pains  would  have 
been  thrown  away.” 

44  After  all,”  resumed  Miriam,  44  if  a  woman  had 
painted  the  original  picture,  there  might  have  been 
something  in  it  which  we  miss  now.  I  have  a  great 
mind  to  undertake  a  copy  myself,  and  try  to  give  it 
what  it  lacks.  Well;  good-by.  But,  stay!  I  am 
going  for  a  little  airing  to  the  grounds  of  the  Villa 
Borghese  this  afternoon.  You  will  think  it  very  fool¬ 
ish,  but  I  always  feel  the  safer  in  your  company, 
Hilda,  slender  little  maiden  as  you  are.  Will  you 
come  ?  ” 

44  Ah,  not  to-day,  dearest  Miriam,”  she  replied ;  44 1 
have  set  my  heart  on  giving  another  touch  or  two  to 
this  picture,  and  shall  not  stir  abroad  till  nearly  sun¬ 
set.” 

“Farewell,  then,”  said  her  visitor.  44 1  leave  you  in 
your  dove-cote.  What  a  sweet,  strange  life  you  lead 
here ;  conversing  with  the  souls  of  the  old  masters, 
feeding  and  fondling  your  sister-doves,  and  trimming 
the  Virgin’s  lamp !  Hilda,  do  you  ever  pray  to  the 
Virgin  while  you  tend  her  shrine  ?  ” 

44  Sometimes  I  have  been  moved  to  do  so,”  replied 
the  Dove,  blushing,  and  lowering  her  eyes ;  44  she  was 
a  woman  once.  Do  you  think  it  would  be  wrong  ?  ” 

“Nay,  that  is  for  you  to  judge,”  said  Miriam ;  44 but 
when  you  pray  next,  dear  friend,  remember  me !  ” 

She  went  down  the  long  descent  of  the  lower  stair- 


88 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


case,  and  just  as  she  reached  the  street  the  flock  of 
doves  again  took  their  hurried  flight  from  the  pave¬ 
ment  to  the  topmost  window.  She  threw  her  eyes 
upward  and  beheld  them  hovering  about  Hilda’s  head ; 
for,  after  her  friend’s  departure,  the  girl  had  been 
more  impressed  than  before  by  something  very  sad 
and  troubled  in  her  manner.  She  was,  therefore, 
leaning  forth  from  her  airy  abode,  and  flinging  down 
a  kind,  maidenly  kiss,  and  a  gesture  of  farewell,  in 
the  hope  that  these  might  alight  upon  Miriam’s  heart, 
and  comfort  its  unknown  sorrow  a  little.  Kenyon  the 
sculptor,  who  chanced  to  be  passing  the  head  of  the 
street,  took  note  of  that  ethereal  kiss,  and  wished  that 
he  could  have  caught  it  in  the  air  and  got  Hilda’s 
leave  to  keep  it. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


THE  SUBURBAN  VILLA. 

Donatello,  while  it  was  still  a  doubtful  question 
betwixt  afternoon  and  morning,  set  forth  to  keep  the 
appointment  which  Miriam  had  carelessly  tendered 
him  in  the  grounds  of  the  Villa  Borghese. 

The  entrance  to  these  grounds  (as  all  my  readers 
know,  for  everybody  nowadays  has  been  in  Rome)  is 
just  outside  of  the  Porta  del  Popolo.  Passing  be¬ 
neath  that  not  very  impressive  specimen  of  Michael 
Angelo’s  architecture,  a  minute’s  walk  will  transport 
the  visitor  from  the  small,  uneasy,  lava  stones  of  the 
Roman  pavement  into  broad,  gravelled  carriage-drives, 
whence  a  little  farther  stroll  brings  him  to  the  soft 
turf  of  a  beautiful  seclusion.  A  seclusion,  but  seldom 
a  solitude ;  for  priest,  noble,  and  populace,  stranger 
and  native,  all  who  breathe  Roman  air,  find  free  ad¬ 
mission,  and  come  hither  to  taste  the  languid  enjoy¬ 
ment  of  the  day-dream  that  they  call  life. 

But  Donatello’s  enjoyment  was  of  a  livelier  kind. 
He  soon  began  to  draw  long  and  delightful  breaths 
among  those  shadowy  walks.  Judging  by  the  pleas¬ 
ure  which  the  sylvan  character  of  the  scene  excited  in 
him,  it  might  be  no  merely  fanciful  theory  to  set  him 
down  as  the  kinsman,  not  far  remote,  of  that  wild, 
sweet,  playful,  rustic  creature,  to  whose  marble  image 
he  bore  so  striking  a  resemblance.  How  mirthful  a 
discovery  would  it  be  (and  yet  with  a  touch  of  pathos 


90 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


in  it),  if  the  breeze  which  sported  fondly  with  his 
clustering  locks  were  to  waft  them  suddenly  aside, 
and  show  a  pair  of  leaf-shaped,  furry  ears  !  What  an 
honest  strain  of  wildness  would  it  indicate !  and  into 
what  regions  of  rich  mystery  would  it  extend  Dona¬ 
tello’s  sympathies,  to  be  thus  linked  (and  by  no  mon¬ 
strous  chain)  with  what  we  call  the  inferior  tribes  of 
being,  whose  simplicity,  mingled  with  his  human  in¬ 
telligence,  might  partly  restore  what  man  has  lost  of 
the  divine ! 

The  scenery  amid  which  the  youth  now  strayed  was 
such  as  arrays  itself  in  the  imagination  when  we  read 
the  beautiful  old  myths,  and  fancy  a  brighter  sky,  a 
softer  turf,  a  more  picturesque  arrangement  of  vener¬ 
able  trees,  than  we  find  in  the  rude  and  untrained 
landscapes  of  the  Western  world.  The  ilex-trees,  so 
ancient  and  time-honored  were  they,  seemed  to  have 
lived  for  ages  undisturbed,  and  to  feel  no  dread  of 
profanation  by  the  axe  any  more  than  overthrow  by 
the  thunder  -  stroke.  It  had  already  passed  out  of 
their  dreamy  old  memories  that  only  a  few  years  ago 
they  were  grievously  imperilled  by  the  Gaul’s  last  as¬ 
sault  upon  the  walls  of  Rome.  As  if  confident  in  the 
long  peace  of  their  lifetime,  they  assumed  attitudes  of 
indolent  repose.  They  leaned  over  the  green  turf  in 
ponderous  grace,  throwing  abroad  their  great  branches 
without  danger  of  interfering  with  other  trees,  though 
other  majestic  trees  grew  near  enough  for  dignified 
society,  but  too  distant  for  constraint.  Never  was 
there  a  more  venerable  quietude  than  that  which  slept 
among  their  sheltering  boughs ;  never  a  sweeter  sun¬ 
shine  than  that  now  gladdening  the  gentle  gloom 
which  these  leafy  patriarchs  strove  to  diffuse  over  the 
swelling  and  subsiding  lawns. 


THE  SUBURBAN  VILLA. 


91 


In  other  portions  of  the  grounds  the  stone-pines 
lifted  their  dense  clump  of  branches  upon  a  slender 
length  of  stem,  so  high  that  they  looked  like  green 
islands  in  the  air,  flinging  down  a  shadow  upon  the 
turf  so  far  off  that  you  hardly  knew  which  tree  had 
made  it.  Again,  there  were  avenues  of  cypress,  re^ 
sembling  dark  flames  of  huge  funeral  candles,  which 
spread  dusk  and  twilight  round  about  them  instead 
of  cheerful  radiance.  The  more  open  spots  were  all 
a-bloom,  even  so  early  in  the  season,  with  anemones 
of  wondrous  size,  both  white  and  rose-colored,  and 
violets  that  betrayed  themselves  by  their  rich  fra¬ 
grance,  even  if  their  blue  eyes  failed  to  meet  your 
own.  Daisies,  too,  were  abundant,  but  larger  than 
the  modest  little  English  flower,  and  therefore  of 
small  account. 

These  wooded  and  flowery  lawns  are  more  beautiful 
than  the  finest  of  English  park-scenery,  more  touch¬ 
ing,  more  impressive,  through  the  neglect  that  leaves 
Nature  so  much  to  her  own  ways  and  methods.  Since 
man  seldom  interferes  with  her,  she  sets  to  work  in 
her  quiet  way  and  makes  herself  at  home.  There  is 
enough  of  human  care,  it  is  true,  bestowed,  long  ago 
and  still  bestowed,  to  prevent  wildness  from  growing 
into  deformity ;  and  the  result  is  an  ideal  landscape,  a 
woodland  scene  that  seems  to  have  been  projected  out 
of  the  poet’s  mind.  If  the  ancient  Faun  were  other 
than  a  mere  creation  of  old  poetry,  and  could  have  re¬ 
appeared  anywhere,  it  must  have  been  in  such  a  scene 
as  this. 

In  the  openings  of  the  wood  there  are  fountains 
plashing  into  marble  basins,  the  depths  of  which  are 
shaggy  with  water-weeds  ;  or  they  tumble  like  natural 
cascades  from  rock  to  rock,  sending  their  murmur 


92 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI . 


afar,  to  make  the  quiet  and  silence  more  appreciable. 
Scattered  here  and  there  with  careless  artifice,  stand 
old  altars  bearing  Roman  inscriptions.  Statues,  gray 
with  the  long  corrosion  of  even  that  soft  atmosphere, 
half  hide  and  half  reveal  themselves,  high  on  pedestals, 
or  perhaps  fallen  and  broken  on  the  turf.  Terminal 
figures,  columns  of  marble  or  granite  porticos,  arches, 
are  seen  in  the  vistas  of  the  wood-paths,  either  verita¬ 
ble  relics  of  antiquity,  or  with  so  exquisite  a  touch  of 
artful  ruin  on  them  that  they  are  better  than  if  really 
antique.  At  all  events,  grass  grows  on  the  tops  of  the 
shattered  pillars,  and  weeds  and  flowers  root  them¬ 
selves  in  the  chinks  of  the  massive  arches  and  fronts 
of  temples,  and  clamber  at  large  over  their  pediments, 
as  if  this  were  the  thousandth  summer  since  their 
winged  seeds  alighted  there. 

What  a  strange  idea  —  what  a  needless  labor  —  to 
construct  artificial  ruins  in  Rome,  the  native  soil  of 
ruin  !  But  even  these  sportive  imitations,  wrought  by 
man  in  emulation  of  what  time  has  done  to  temples 
and  palaces,  are  perhaps  centuries  old,  and,  beginning 
as  illusions,  have  grown  to  be  venerable  in  sober  ear¬ 
nest.  The  result  of  all  is  a  scene,  pensive,  lovely, 
dream-like,  enjoyable  and  sad,  such  as  is  to  be  found 
nowhere  save  in  these  princely  villa-residences  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Rome  ;  a  scene  that  must  have  re¬ 
quired  generations  and  ages,  during  which  growth, 
decay,  and  man’s  intelligence  wrought  kindly  together, 
to  render  it  so  gently  wild  as  we  behold  it  now. 

The  final  charm  is  bestowed  by  the  malaria.  There 
is  a  piercing,  thrilling,  delicious  kind  of  regret  in  the 
idea  of  so  much  beauty  thrown  away,  or  only  enjoya¬ 
ble  at  its  half-development,  in  winter  and  early  spring, 
and  never  to  be  dwelt  amongst,  as  the  home-scenery 


THE  SUBURBAN  VILLA. 


93 


of  any  human  being.  For  if  yon  come  hither  in  sum¬ 
mer,  and  stray  through  these  glades  in  the  golden 
sunset,  fever  walks  arm  in  arm  with  you,  and  death 
awaits  you  at  the  end  of  the  dim  vista.  Thus  the 
scene  is  like  Eden  in  its  loveliness  ;  like  Eden,  too, 
in  the  fatal  spell  that  removes  it  beyond  the  scope  of 
man’s  actual  possessions.  But  Donatello  felt  nothing 
of  this  dream -like  melancholy  that  haunts  the  spot. 
As  he  passed  among  the  sunny  shadows,  his  spirit 
seemed  to  acquire  new  elasticity.  The  flicker  of  the 
sunshine,  the  sparkle  of  the  fountain’s  gush,  the  dance 
of  the  leaf  upon  the  bough,  the  woodland  fragrance, 
the  green  freshness,  the  old  sylvan  peace  and  freedom, 
were  all  intermingled  in  those  long  breaths  which  he 
drew. 

The  ancient  dust,  the  mouldiness  of  Rome,  the  dead 
atmosphere  in  which  he  had  wasted  so  many  months, 
the  hard  pavements,  the  smell  of  ruin  and  decaying 
generations,  the  chill  palaces,  the  convent-bells,  the 
heavy  incense  of  altars,  the  life  that  he  had  led  in 
those  dark,  narrow  streets,  among  priests,  soldiers, 
nobles,  artists,  and  women,  —  all  the  sense  of  these 
things  rose  from  the  young  man’s  consciousness  like  a 
cloud  which  had  darkened  over  him  without  his  know¬ 
ing  how  densely. 

He  drank  in  the  natural  influences  of  the  scene,  and 
was  intoxicated  as  by  an  exhilarating  wine.  He  ran 
races  with  himself  along  the  gleam  and  shadow  of  the 
wood-paths.  He  leapt  up  to  catch  the  overhanging 
bough  of  an  ilex,  and  swinging  himself  by  it  alighted 
far  onward,  as  if  he  had  flown  thither  through  the  air. 
In  a  sudden  rapture  he  embraced  the  trunk  of  a  sturdy 
tree,  and  seemed  to  imagine  it  a  creature  worthy  of  af¬ 
fection  and  capable  of  a  tender  response ;  he  clasped 


94 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


it  closely  in  his  arms,  as  a  Faun  might  have  clasped 
the  warm  feminine  grace  of  the  nymph,  whom  antiq¬ 
uity  supposed  to  dwell  within  that  rough,  encircling 
rind.  Then,  in  order  to  bring  himself  closer  to  the 
genial  earth,  with  which  his  kindred  instincts  linked 
him  so  strongly,  he  threw  himself  at  full  length  on  the 
turf,  and  pressed  down  his  lips,  kissing  the  violets  and 
daisies,  which  kissed  him  back  again,  though  shyly,  in 
their  maiden  fashion. 

While  he  lay  there,  it  was  pleasant  to  see  how  the 
green  and  blue  lizards,  who  had  been  basking  on  some 
rock  or  on  a  fallen  pillar  that  absorbed  the  warmth  of 
the  sun,  scrupled  not  to  scramble  over  him  with  their 
small  feet ;  and  how  the  birds  alighted  on  the  nearest 
twigs  and  sang  their  little  roundelays  unbroken  by  any 
chirrup  of  alarm ;  they  recognized  him,  it  may  be,  as 
something  akin  to  themselves,  or  else  they  fancied 
that  he  was  rooted  and  grew  there ;  for  these  wild 
pets  of  nature  dreaded  him  no  more  in  his  buoyant 
life  than  if  a  mound  of  soil  and  grass  and  flowers  had 
long  since  covered  his  dead  body,  converting  it  back 
to  the  sympathies  from  which  human  existence  had 
estranged  it. 

All  of  us,  after  a  long  abode  in  cities,  have  felt  the 
blood  gush  more  joyously  through  our  veins  with  the 
first  breath  of  rural  air ;  few  could  feel  it  so  much  as 
Donatello,  a  creature  of  simple  elements,  bred  in  the 
sweet  sylvan  life  of  Tuscany,  and  for  months  back 
dwelling  amid  the  mouldy  gloom  and  dim  splendor  of 
old  Rome.  Nature  has  been  shut  out  for  numberless 
centuries  from  tlmse  stony-hearted  streets,  to  which  he 
had  latterly  grown  accustomed ;  there  is  no  trace  of 
her,  except  for  what  blades  of  grass  spring  out  of  the 
pavements  of  the  less  trodden  piazzas,  or  what  weeds 


THE  SUBURBAN  VILLA. 


95 


cluster  and  tuft  themselves  on  the  cornices  of  ruins. 
Therefore  his  joy  was  like  that  of  a  child  that  had 
gone  astray  from  home,  and  finds  him  suddenly  in  his 
mother’s  arms  again. 

At  last,  deeming  it  full  time  for  Miriam  to  keep  her 
tryst,  he  climbed  to  the  tiptop  of  the  tallest  tree,  and 
thence  looked  about  him,  swaying  to  and  fro  in  the 
gentle  breeze,  which  was  like  the  respiration  of  that 
great  leafy,  living  thing.  Donatello  saw  beneath  him 
the  whole  circuit  of  the  enchanted  ground ;  the  statues 
and  columns  pointing  upward  from  among  the  shrub¬ 
bery,  the  fountains  flashing  in  the  sunlight,  the  paths 
winding  hither  and  thither,  and  continually  finding 
out  some  nook  of  new  and  ancient  pleasantness.  He 
saw  the  villa,  too,  with  its  marble  front  incrusted  all 
over  with  bas-reliefs,  and  statues  in  its  many  niches. 
It  was  as  beautiful  as  a  fairy  palace,  and  seemed  an 
abode  in  which  the  lord  and  lady  of  this  fair  domain 
might  fitly  dwell,  and  come  forth  each  morning  to  en¬ 
joy  as  sweet  a  life  as  their  happiest  dreams  of  the  past 
night  could  have  depicted.  All  this  he  saw,  but  his 
first  glance  had  taken  in  too  wide  a  sweep,  and  it  was 
not  till  his  eyes  fell  almost  directly  beneath  him,  that 
Donatello  beheld  Miriam  just  turning  into  the  path 
that  led  across  the  roots  of  his  very  tree. 

He  descended  among  the  foliage,  waiting  for  her  to 
come  close  to  the  trunk,  and  then  suddenly  dropped 
from  an  impending  bough,  and  alighted  at  her  side. 
It  was  as  if  the  swaying  of  the  branches  had  let  a 
ray  of  sunlight  through.  The  same  ray  likewise  glim¬ 
mered  among  the  gloomy  meditations  that  encom¬ 
passed  Miriam,  and  lit  up  the  pale,  dark  beauty  of 
her  face,  while  it  responded  pleasantly  to  Donatello’s 
glance. 


96 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI . 


“  I  hardly  know,”  said  she,  smiling,  “  whether  you 
have  sprouted  out  of  the  earth,  or  fallen  from  the 
clouds.  In  either  case  you  are  welcome.” 

And  they  walked  onward  together « 


CHAPTER  IX. 


THE  FAUN  AND  NYMPH. 

Miriam’s  sadder  mood,  it  might  be,  had  at  first  an 
effect  on  Donatello’s  spirits.  It  checked  the  joyous 
ebullition  into  which  they  would  otherwise  have  effer¬ 
vesced  when  he  found  himself  in  her  society,  not,  as 
heretofore,  in  the  old  gloom  of  Rome,  but  under  that 
bright  soft  sky  and  in  those  Arcadian  woods.  He 
was  silent  for  a  while  ;  it  being,  indeed,  seldom  Dona¬ 
tello’s  impulse  to  express  himself  copiously  in  words. 
His  usual  modes  of  demonstration  were  by  the  natural 
language  of  gesture,  the  instinctive  movement  of  his 
agile  frame,  and  the  unconscious  play  of  his  features, 
which,  within  a  limited  range  of  thought  and  emotion, 
would  speak  volumes  in  a  moment. 

By  and  by,  his  own  mood  seemed  to  brighten  Mir¬ 
iam’s,  and  was  reflected  back  upon  himself.  He  be¬ 
gan  inevitably,  as  it  were,  to  dance  along  the  wood- 
path,  flinging  himself  into  attitudes  of  strange  comic 
grace.  Often,  too,  he  ran  a  little  way  in  advance  of 
his  companion,  and  then  stood  to  watch  her  as  she  ap¬ 
proached  along  the  shadowy  and  sun-fleckered  path. 
With  every  step  she  took,  he  expressed  his  joy  at  her 
nearer  and  nearer  presence  by  what  might  be  thought 
an  extravagance  of  gesticulation,  but  which  doubtless 
was  the  language  of  the  natural  man,  though  laid  aside 
and  forgotten  by  other  men,  now  that  words  have  been 
feebly  substituted  in  the  place  of  signs  and  symbols. 

VOL.  VI. 


98 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


He  gave  Miriam  the  idea  of  a  being  not  precisely  man, 
nor  yet  a  child,  but,  in  a  high  and  beautiful  sense,  an 
animal,  —  a  creature  in  a  state  of  development  less 
than  what  mankind  has  attained,  yet  the  more  perfect 
within  itself  for  that  very  deficiency.  This  idea  filled 
her  mobile  imagination  with  agreeable  fantasies,  which, 
after  smiling  at  them  herself,  she  tried  to  convey  to 
the  young  man. 

“  What  are  you,  my  friend  ?  ”  she  exclaimed,  always 
keeping  in  mind  his  singular  resemblance  to  the  Faun 
of  the  Capitol.  “  If  you  are,  in  good  truth,  that  wild 
and  pleasant  creature  whose  face  you  wear,  pray  make 
me  known  to  your  kindred.  They  will  be  found  here¬ 
abouts,  if  anywhere.  Knock  at  the  rough  rind  of  this 
ilex -tree,  and  summon  forth  the  Dryad!  Ask  the 
water-nymph  to  rise  dripping  from  yonder  fountain, 
and  exchange  a  moist  pressure  of  the  hand  with  me ! 
Do  not  fear  that  I  shall  shrink,  even  if  one  of  your 
rough  cousins,  a  hairy  Satyr,  should  come  capering  on 
his  goat-legs  out  of  the  haunts  of  far  antiquity,  and 
propose  to  dance  with  me  among  these  lawns  !  And 
will  not  Bacchus,  —  with  whom  you  consorted  so  fa¬ 
miliarly  of  old,  and  who  loved  you  so  well, —  will  he 
not  meet  us  here,  and  squeeze  rich  grapes  into  his  cup 
for  you  and  me  ?  ” 

Donatello  smiled ;  he  laughed  heartily,  indeed,  in 
sympathy  with  the  mirth  that  gleamed  out  of  Miriam's 
deep,  dark  eyes.  But  he  did  not  seem  quite  to  under¬ 
stand  her  mirthful  talk,  nor  to  be  disposed  to  explain 
what  kind  of  creature  he  was,  or  to  inquire  with  what 
divine  or  poetic  kindred  his  companion  feigned  to  link 
him.  He  appeared  only  to  know  that  Miriam  was 
beautiful,  and  that  she  smiled  graciously  upon  him  , 
that  the  present  moment  was  very  sweet,  and  himself 


THE  FAUN  AND  NYMPH. 


99 


most  happy,  with  the  sunshine,  the  sylvan  scenery, 
and  woman’s  kindly  charm,  which  it  enclosed  within 
its  small  circumference.  It  was  delightful  to  see  the 
trust  which  he  reposed  in  Miriam,  and  his  pure  joy  in 
her  propinquity ;  he  asked  nothing,  sought  nothing, 
save  to  be  near  the  beloved  object,  and  brimmed  over 
with  ecstasy  at  that  simple  boon.  A  creature  of  the 
happy  tribes  below  us  sometimes  shows  the  capacity 
of  this  enjoyment ;  a  man,  seldom  or  never. 

“  Donatello,”  said  Miriam,  looking  at  him  thought¬ 
fully,  but  amused,  yet  not  without  a  shade  of  sorrow, 
“  you  seem  very  happy  ;  what  makes  3rou  so  ?  ” 

“  Because  I  love  you  !  ”  answered  Donatello. 

He  made  this  momentous  confession  as  if  it  were 
the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world  ;  and  on  her  part, 
—  such  was  the  contagion  of  his  simplicity,  —  Miriam 
heard  it  without  anger  or  disturbance,  though  with  no 
responding  emotion.  It  was  as  if  they  had  strayed 
across  the  limits  of  Arcadia,  and  come  under  a  civil 
polity  where  young  men  might  avow  their  passion 
with  as  little  restraint  as  a  bird  pipes  its  note  to  a 
similar  purpose. 

u  Why  should  you  love  me,  foolish  boy  ?  ”  said  she. 
“We  have  no  points  of  sympathy  at  all.  There  are 
not  two  creatures  more  unlike,  in  this  wide  world,  than 
you  and  I  !  ” 

“  You  are  yourself,  and  I  am  Donatello,”  replied 
he.  “  Therefore  I  love  you  !  There  needs  no  other 
reason.” 

Certainly,  there  was  no  better  or  more  explicable 
reason.  It  might  have  been  imagined  that  Donatello’s 
unsophisticated  heart  would  be  more  readily  attracted 
to  a  feminine  nature  of  clear  simplicity  like  his  own, 
than  to  one  already  turbid  with  grief  or  wrong,  as 


100 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


Miriam’s  seemed  to  be.  Perhaps,  on  the  other  hand, 
his  character  needed  the  dark  element,  which  it  found 
in  her.  The  force  and  energy  of  will,  that  sometimes 
flashed  through  her  eyes,  may  have  taken  him  captive ; 
or,  not  improbably,  the  varying  lights  and  shadows  of 
her  temper,  now  so  mirthful,  and  anon  so  sad  with 
mysterious  gloom,  had  bewitched  the  youth.  Analyze 
the  matter  as  we  may,  the  reason  assigned  by  Dona¬ 
tello  himself  was  as  satisfactory  as  we  are  likely  to  at¬ 
tain. 

Miriam  could  not  think  seriously  of  the  avowal  that 
had  passed.  He  held  out  his  love  so  freely,  in  his 
open  palm,  that  she  felt  it  could  be  nothing  but  a  toy, 
which  she  might  play  with  for  an*  instant,  and  give 
back  again.  And  yet  Donatello’s  heart  was  so  fresh 
a  fountain,  that,  had  Miriam  been  more  world -worn 
than  she  was,  she  might  have  found  it  exquisite  to 
slake  her  thirst  with  the  feelings  that  welled  up  and 
brimmed  over  from  it.  She  was  far,  very  far,  from 
the  dusty  mediaeval  epoch,  when  some  women  have  a 
taste  for  such  refreshment.  Even  for  her,  however, 
there  was  an  inexpressible  charm  in  the  simplicity 
that  prompted  Donatello’s  words  and  deeds;  though, 
unless  she  caught  them  in  precisely  the  true  light, 
they  seemed  but  folly,  the  offspring  of  a  maimed  or 
imperfectly  developed  intellect.  Alternately,  she  al¬ 
most  admired,  or  wholly  scorned  him,  and  knew  not 
which  estimate  resulted  from  the  deeper  appreciation. 
But  it  could  not,  she  decided  for  herself,  be  other  than 
an  innocent  pastime,  if  they  two  —  sure  to  be  sepa¬ 
rated  by  their  different  paths  in  life,  to-morrow  —  were 
to  gather  up  some  of  the  little  pleasures  that  chanced 
to  grow  about  their  feet,  like  the  violets  and  wood- 
anemones,  to-day. 


THE  FAUN  AND  NYMPH. 


101 


Yet  an  impulse  of  rectitude  impelled  Miriam  to 
give  him  what  she  still  held  to  he  a  needless  warning 
against  an  imaginary  peril. 

“  If  you  were  wiser,  Donatello,  you  would  think  me 
a  dangerous  person,”  said  she.  “  If  you  follow  my 
footsteps,  they  will  lead  you  to  no  good.  You  ought 
to  be  afraid  of  me.” 

“  I  would  as  soon  think  of  fearing  the  air  we 
breathe,”  he  replied. 

“  And  well  you  may,  for  it  is  full  of  malaria,”  said 
Miriam  ;  she  went  on,  hinting  at  an  intangible  confes¬ 
sion,  such  as  persons  with  overburdened  hearts  often 
make  to  children  or  dumb  animals,  or  to  holes  in  the 
earth,  where  they  think  their  secrets  may  be  at  once 
revealed  and  buried.  “  Those  who  come  too  near  me 
are  in  danger  of  great  mischiefs,  I  do  assure  you. 
Take  warning,  therefore !  It  is  a  sad  fatality  that 
has  brought  you  from  your  home  among  the  Apen¬ 
nines,  —  some  rusty  old  castle,  I  suppose,  with  a  vil¬ 
lage  at  its  foot,  and  an  Arcadian  environment  of  vine¬ 
yards,  fig-trees,  and  olive-orchards,  —  a  sad  mischance, 
I  say,  that  has  transported  you  to  my  side.  You  have 
had  a  happy  life  hitherto,  —  have  you  not,  Dona¬ 
tello?” 

“  Oh,  yes,”  answered  the  young  man  ;  and,  though 
not  of  a  retrospective  turn,  he  made  the  best  effort  he 
could  to  send  his  mind  back  into  the  past.  “  I  re¬ 
member  thinking  it  happiness  to  dance  with  the  con- 
tadinas  at  a  village  feast ;  to  taste  the  new,  sweet  wine 
at  vintage-time,  and  the  old,  ripened  wine,  which  our 
podere  is  famous  for,  in  the  cold  winter  evenings ;  and 
to  devour  great,  luscious  figs,  and  apricots,  peaches, 
cherries,  and  melons.  I  was  often  happy  in  the  woods, 
too,  with  hounds  and  horses,  and  very  happy  in  watch- 


102 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENT. 


ing  all  sorts  of  creatures  and  birds  that  haunt  the 
leafy  solitudes.  But  never  half  so  happy  as  now  !  ” 

“  In  these  delightful  groves  ?  ”  she  asked. 

“  Here,  and  with  you,”  answered  Donatello.  “  Just 
as  we  are  now.” 

“  What  a  fulness  of  content  in  him  !  How  silly, 
and  how  delightful !  ”  said  Miriam  to  herself.  Then 
addressing  him  again  :  “  But,  Donatello,  how  long 

will  this  happiness  last  ?  ” 

“  How  long  !  ”  he  exclaimed  ;  for  it  perplexed  him 
even  more  to  think  of  the  future  than  to  remember 
the  past.  “  Why  should  it  have  any  end  ?  How  long ! 
Forever  !  forever  !  forever  !  ” 

“  The  child  !  the  simpleton  !  ”  said  Miriam,  with 
sudden  laughter,  and  checking  it  as  suddenly.  “  But 
is  he  a  simpleton  indeed  ?  Here,  in  those  few  natural 
words,  he  has  expressed  that  deep  sense,  that  profound 
conviction  of  its  own  immortality,  which  genuine  love 
never  fails  to  bring.  He  perplexes  me,  —  yes,  and 
bewitches  me,  —  wild,  gentle,  beautiful  creature  that 
he  is  !  It  is  like  playing  with  a  young  greyhound  !  ” 
Her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  at  the  same  time  that  a 
smile  shone  out  of  them.  Then  first  she  became  sen¬ 
sible  of  a  delight  and  grief  at  once,  in  feeling  this 
zephyr  of  a  new  affection,  with  its  untainted  freshness, 
blow  over  her  weary,  stifled  heart,  which  had  no  right 
to  be  revived  by  it.  The  very  exquisiteness  of  the  en¬ 
joyment  made  her  know  that  it  ought  to  be  a  forbid¬ 
den  one. 

“  Donatello,”  she  hastily  exclaimed,  “  for  your  own 
sake,  leave  me  !  It  is  not  such  a  happy  thing  as  you 
imagine  it,  to  wander  in  these  woods  with  me,  a  girl 
from  another  land,  burdened  with  a  doom  that  she 
tells  to  none.  I  might  make  you  dread  me,  —  per- 


THE  FAUN  AND  NYMPH.  103 

haps  hate  me,  —  if  I  chose ;  and  I  must  choose,  if  I 
find  you  loving  me  too  well !  ” 

“  I  fear  nothing  !  ”  said  Donatello,  looking  into  her 
unfathomable  eyes  with  perfect  trust.  “  I  love  al¬ 
ways  !  ” 

“  I  speak  in  vain,”  thought  Miriam  within  herself. 
u  Well,  then,  for  this  one  hour,  let  me  be  such  as 
he  imagines  me.  To-morrow  will  be  time  enough  to 
come  back  to  my  reality.  My  reality !  what  is  it  ?  Is 
the  past  so  indestructible  ?  the  future  so  immitigable  ? 
Is  the  dark  dream,  in  which  I  walk,  of  such  solid, 
stony  substance,  that  there  can  be  no  escape  out  of  its 
dungeon  ?  Be  it  so  !  There  is,  at  least,  that  ethereal 
quality  in  my  spirit,  that  it  can  make  me  as  gay  as 
Donatello  himself,  —  for  this  one  hour  ?  ” 

And  immediately  she  brightened  up,  as  if  an  inward 
flame,  heretofore  stifled,  were  now  permitted  to  fill  her 
with  its  happy  lustre,  glowing  through  her  cheeks  and 
dancing  in  her  eye-beams. 

Donatello,  brisk  and  cheerful  as  he  seemed  before, 
showed  a  sensibility  to  Miriam’s  gladdened  mood  by 
breaking  into  still  wilder  and  ever  -  varying  activity. 
He  frisked  around  her,  bubbling  over  with  joy,  which 
clothed  itself  in  words  that  had  little  individual  mean¬ 
ing,  and  in  snatches  of  song  that  seemed  as  natural  as 
bird -notes.  Then  they  both  laughed  together,  and 
heard  their  own  laughter  returning  in  the  echoes, 
and  laughed  again  at  the  response,  so  that  the  ancient 
and  solemn  grove  became  full  of  merriment  for  these 
two  blithe  spirits.  A  bird  happening  to  sing  cheerily, 
Donatello  gave  a  peculiar  call,  and  the  little  feathered 
creature  came  fluttering  about  his  head,  as  if  it  had 
known  him  through  many  summers. 

“  How  close  he  stands  to  nature !  ’  said  Miriam,  ob- 


104 


ROMANCE  CF  MONTE  BENI. 


serving  this  pleasant  familiarity  between  her  compan¬ 
ion  and  the  bird.  “  He  shall  make  me  as  natural  as 
himself  for  this  one  hour.” 

As  they  strayed  through  that  sweet  wilderness,  she 
felt  more  and  more  the  influence  of  his  elastic  tem¬ 
perament.  Miriam  was  an  impressible  and  impulsive 
creature,  as  unlike  herself,  in  different  moods,  as  if  a 
melancholy  maiden  and  a  glad  one  were  both  bound 
within  the  girdle  about  her  waist,  and  kept  in  magic 
thraldom  by  the  brooch  that  clasped  it.  Naturally,  it 
is  true,  she  was  the  more  inclined  to  melancholy,  yet 
fully  capable  of  that  high  frolic  of  the  spirits  which 
richly  compensates  for  many  gloomy  hours ;  if  her 
soul  was  apt  to  lurk  in  the  darkness  of  a  cavern,  she 
could  sport  madly  in  the  sunshine  before  the  cavern’s 
mouth.  Except  the  freshest  mirth  of  animal  spirits, 
like  Donatello’s,  there  is  no  merriment,  no  wild  ex¬ 
hilaration,  comparable  to  that  of  melancholy  people 
escaping  from  the  dark  region  in  which  it  is  their  cus¬ 
tom  to  keep  themselves  imprisoned. 

So  the  shadowy  Miriam  almost  outdid  Donatello  on 
his  own  ground.  They  ran  races  with  each  other,  side 
by  side,  with  shouts  and  laughter;  they  pelted  one 
another  with  early  flowers,  and  gathering  them  up 
twined  them  with  green  leaves  into  garlands  for  both 
their  heads.  They  played  together  like  children,  or 
creatures  of  immortal  youth.  So  much  had  they  flung 
aside  the  sombre  habitudes  of  daily  life,  that  they 
seemed  born  to  be  sportive  forever,  and  endowed  with 
eternal  mirthfulness  instead  of  any  deeper  joy.  It 
was  a  glimpse  far  backward  into  Arcadian  life,  or, 
further  still,  into  the  Golden  Age,  before  mankind 
was  burdened  with  sin  and  sorrow,  and  before  pleas¬ 
ure  had  been  darkened  with  those  shadows  that  bring 
it  into  high  relief,  and  make  it  happiness. 


THE  FAUN  AND  NYMPH. 


105 


44  Hark !  ”  cried  Donatello,  stopping  short,  as  he 
was  about  to  bind  Miriam’s  fair  hands  with  flowers, 
and  lead  her  along  in  triumph,  44  there  is  music  some¬ 
where  in  the  grove  !  ” 

44  It  is  your  kinsman,  Pan,  most  likely,”  said  Mir¬ 
iam,  44  playing  on  his  pipe.  Let  us  go  seek  him,  and 
make  him  puff  out  his  rough  cheeks  and  pine  his  mer¬ 
riest  air !  Come  ;  the  strain  of  music  will  guide  us 
onward  like  a  gayly  colored  thread  of  silk.” 

44  Or  like  a  chain  of  flowers,”  responded  Donatello, 
drawing  her  along  by  that  which  he  had  twined. 
44  This  way  !—  Come!” 


CHAPTER  X. 


THE  SYLVAN  DANCE. 

As  the  music  came  fresher  on  their  ears,  they 
danced  to  its  cadence,  extemporizing  new  steps  and 
attitudes.  Each  varying  movement  had  a  grace  which 
might  have  been  worth  putting  into  marble,  for  the 
long  delight  of  days  to  come,  but  vanished  with  the 
movement  that  gave  it  birth,  and  was  effaced  from 
memory  by  another.  In  Miriam’s  motion,  freely  as 
she  flung  herself  into  the  frolic  of  the  hour,  there  was 
still  an  artful  beauty ;  in  Donatello’s,  there  was  a 
charm  of  indescribable  grotesqueness  hand  in  hand 
with  grace ;  sweet,  bewitching,  most  provocative  of 
laughter,  and  yet  akin  to  pathos,  so  deeply  did  it 
touch  the  heart.  This  was  the  ultimate  peculiarity, 
the  final  touch,  distinguishing  between  the  sylvan 
creature  and  the  beautiful  companion  at  his  side. 
Setting  apart  only,  this,  Miriam  resembled  a  Nymph, 
as  much  as  Donatello  did  a  Faun. 

There  were  flitting  moments,  indeed,  when  she 
played  the  sylvan  character  as  perfectly  as  he.  Catch¬ 
ing  glimpses  of  her,  then,  you  would  have  fancied  that 
an  oak  had  sundered  its  rough  bark  to  let  her  dance 
freely  forth,  endowed  with  the  same  spirit  in  her  hu¬ 
man  form  as  that  which  rustles  in  the  leaves  ;  or  that 
she  had  emerged  through  the  pebbly  bottom  of  a  foun¬ 
tain,  a  water-nymph,  to  play  and  sparkle  in  the  sun- 


THE  SYLVAN  DANCE.  107 

shine,  flinging  a  quivering  light  around  her,  and  sud¬ 
denly  disappearing  in  a  shower  of  rainbow  drops. 

As  the  fountain  sometimes  subsides  into  its  basin, 
so  in  Miriam  there  were  symptoms  that  the  frolic  of 
her  spirits  would  at  last  tire  itself  out. 

“  Ah  !  Donatello,”  cried  she,  laughing,  as  she 
stopped  to  take  breath  ;  “  you  have  an  unfair  advan¬ 
tage  over  me !  I  am  no  true  creature  of  the  woods  ; 
while  you  are  a  real  Faun,  I  do  believe.  When  your 
curls  shook  just  now,  methought  I  had  a  peep  at  the 
pointed  ears.” 

Donatello  snapped  his  fingers  above  his  head,  as 
fauns  and  satyrs  taught  us  first  to  do,  and  seemed  to 
radiate  jollity  out  of  his  whole  nimble  person.  Never¬ 
theless,  there  was  a  kind  of  dim  apprehension  in  his 
face,  as  if  he  dreaded  that  a  moment’s  pause  might 
break  the  spell,  and  snatch  away  the  sportive  compan¬ 
ion  whom  he  had  waited  for  through  so  many  dreary 
months. 

“  Dance  !  dance  !  ”  cried  he,  joyously.  “  If  we 
take  breath,  we  shall  be  as  we  were  yesterday.  There, 
now,  is  the  music,  just  beyond  this  clump  of  trees. 
Dance,  Miriam,  dance  !  ” 

They  had  now  reached  an  open,  grassy  glade  (of 
which  there  are  many  in  that  artfully  constructed  wil¬ 
derness),  set  round  with  stone  seats,  on  which  the 
aged  moss  had  kindly  essayed  to  spread  itself  instead 
of  cushions.  On  one  of  the  stone  benches  sat  the 
musicians,  whose  strains,  had  enticed  our  wild  couple 
thitherward.  They  proved  to  be  a  vagrant  band,  such 
as  Home,  and  all  Italy,  abounds  with ;  comprising  a 
harp,  a  flute,  and  a  violin,  which,  though  greatly  the 
worse  for  wear,  the  performers  had  skill  enough  to  pro¬ 
voke  and  modulate  into  tolerable  harmony.  It  chanced 


108 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


to  be  a  feast-day ;  and,  instead  of  playing  in  the  sun- 
scorched  piazzas  of  the  city,  or  beneath  the  windows  of 
some  unresponsive  palace,  they  had  bethought  them¬ 
selves  to  try  the  echoes  of  these  woods  ;  for,  on  the 
festas  of  the  Church,  Rome  scatters  its  merry-makers 
all  abroad,  ripe  for  the  dance  or  any  other  pastime. 

As  Miriam  and  Donatello  emerged  from  among  the 
trees,  the  musicians  scraped,  tinkled,  or  blew,  each  ac¬ 
cording  to  his  various  kind  of  instrument,  more  in- 
spiringly  than  ever.  A  dark-cheeked  little  girl,  with 
bright  black  eyes,  stood  by,  shaking  a  tambourine  set 
round  with  tinkling  bells,  and  thumping  it  on  its 
parchment  head.  Without  interrupting  his  brisk, 
though  measured  movement,  Donatello  snatched  away 
this  unmelodious  contrivance,  and  flourishing  it  above 
his  head,  produced  music  of  indescribable  potency, 
still  dancing  with  frisky  step,  and  striking  the  tam¬ 
bourine,  and  ringing  its  little  bells,  all  in  one  jovial 
act. 

It  might  be  that  there  was  magic  in  the  sound,  or 
contagion,  at  least,  in  the  spirit  which  had  got  posses¬ 
sion  of  Miriam  and  himself,  for  very  soon  a  number  of 
festal  people  were  drawn  to  the  spot,  and  struck  into 
the  dance,  singly,  or  in  pairs,  as  if  they  were  all  gone 
mad  with  jollity.  Among  them  were  some  of  the 
plebeian  damsels  whom  we  meet  bareheaded  in  the 
Roman  streets,  with  silver  stilettos  thrust  through 
their  glossy  hair  ;  the  contadinas,  too,  from  the  Cam- 
pagna  and  the  villages,  with  their  rich  and  picturesque 
costumes  of  scarlet  and  all  bright  hues,  such  as  fairer 
maidens  might  not  venture  to  put  on.  Then  came  the 
modern  Roman  from  Trastevere,  perchance,  with  his 
old  cloak  drawn  about  him  like  a  toga,  which  anon,  as 
his  active  motion  heated  him,  he  flung  aside.  Three 


THE  SYLVAN  DANCE. 


109 


French  soldiers  capered  freely  into  the  throng,  in  wide 
scarlet  trousers,  their  short  swords  dangling  at  their 
sides  ;  and  three  German  artists  in  gray  flaccid  hats 
and  flaunting  beards  ;  and  one  of  the  Pope’s  Swiss 
guardsmen  in  the  strange  motley  garb  which  Michael 
Angelo  contrived  for  them.  Two  young  English  tour¬ 
ists  (one  of  them  a  lord)  took  contadine  partners  and 
dashed  in,  as  did  also  a  shaggy  man  in  goat -skin 
breeches,  who  looked  like  rustic  Pan  in  person,  and 
footed  it  as  merrily  as  he.  Besides  the  above  there 
was  a  herdsman  or  two  from  the  Campagna,  and  a 
few  peasants  in  sky-blue  jackets,  and  small-clothes 
tied  with  ribbons  at  the  knees ;  haggard  and  sallow 
were  these  last,  poor  serfs,  having  little  to  eat  and 
nothing  but  the  malaria  to  breathe  ;  but  still  they 
plucked  up  a  momentary  spirit  and  joined  hands  in 
Donatello’s  dance. 

Here,  as  it  seemed,  had  the  Golden  Age  come  back 
again  within  the  precincts  of  this  sunny  glade,  thaw¬ 
ing  mankind  out  of  their  cold  formalities,  releasing 
them  from  irksome  restraint,  mingling  them  together 
in  such  childlike  gayety  that  new  flowers  (of  which 
the  old  bosom  of  the  earth  is  full)  sprang  up  beneath 
their  footsteps.  The  sole  exception  to  the  geniality 
of  the  moment,  as  we  have  understood,  was  seen  in  a 
countryman  of  our  own,  who  sneered  at  the  spectacle, 
and  declined  to  compromise  his  dignity  by  making 
part  of  it. 

The  harper  thrummed  with  rapid  fingers ;  the  vio¬ 
lin-player  flashed  his  bow  back  and  forth  across  the 
strings  ;  the  flautist  poured  his  breath  in  quick  puffs 
of  jollity,  while  Donatello  shook  the  tambourine  above 
his  head,  and  led  the  merry  throng  with  unweariable 
steps.  As  they  followed  one  another  in  a  wild  ring 


110 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


of  mirth,  it  seemed  the  realization  of  one  of  those  bas- 
reliefs  where  a  dance  of  nymphs,  satyrs,  or  bacchanals 
is  twined  around  the  circle  of  an  antique  vase  ;  or  it 
was  like  the  sculptured  scene  on  the  front  and  sides 
of  a  sarcophagus,  where,  as  often  as  any  other  device, 
a  festive  procession  mocks  the  ashes  and  white  bones 
that  are  treasured  up  within.  You  might  take  it  for 
a  marriage-pageant ;  but  after  a  while,  if  you  look  at 
these  merry-makers,  following  them  from  end  to  end 
of  the  marble  coffin,  you  doubt  whether  their  gay 
movement  is  leading  them  to  a  happy  close.  A  youth 
has  suddenly  fallen  in  the  dance  ;  a  chariot  is  over¬ 
turned  and  broken,  flinging  the  charioteer  headlong 
to  the  ground  ;  a  maiden  seems  to  have  grown  faint 
or  weary  and  is  drooping  on  the  bosom  of  a  friend. 
Always  some  tragic  incident  is  shadowed  forth  or 
thrust  sidelong  into  the  spectacle  ;  and  when  once  it 
has  caught  your  eye  you  can  look  no  more  at  the  fes¬ 
tal  portions  of  the  scene,  except  with  reference  to  this 
one  slightly  suggested  doom  and  sorrow. 

As  in  its  mirth,  so  in  the  darker  characteristic  here 
alluded  to,  there  was  an  analogy  between  the  sculp¬ 
tured  scene  on  the  sarcophagus  and  the  wild  dance 
which  we  have  been  describing.  In  the  midst  of  its 
madness  and  riot  Miriam  found  herself  suddenly  con¬ 
fronted  by  a  strange  figure  that  shook  its  fantastic 
garments  in  the  air,  and  pranced  before  her  on  its  tip¬ 
toes,  almost  vying  with  the  agility  of  Donatello  him¬ 
self.  It  was  the  model. 

A  moment  afterwards  Donatello  was  aware  that  she 
had  retired  from  the  dance.  He  hastened  towards 
her,  and  flung  himself  on  the  grass  beside  the  stone 
bench  on  which  Miriam  was  sitting.  But  a  strange 
distance  and  unapproachableness  had  all  at  once  en* 


THE  SYLVAN  DANCE. 


Ill 


veloped  her  ;  and  though  he  saw  her  within  reach  of 
his  arm,  yet  the  light  of  her  eyes  seemed  as  far  off  as 
that  of  a  star,  nor  was  there  any  warmth  in  the  mel¬ 
ancholy  smile  with  which  she  regarded  him. 

“  Come  back  !  ”  cried  he.  “  Why  should  this  happy 
hour  end  so  soon  ?  ” 

“  It  must  end  here,  Donatello,”  said  she,  in  answer 
to  his  words  and  outstretched  hand  ;  “  and  such  hours, 
I  believe,  do  not  often  repeat  themselves  in  a  lifetime. 
Let  me  go,  my  friend  ;  let  me  vanish  from  you  quietly 
among  the  shadows  of  these  trees.  See,  the  compan¬ 
ions  of  our  pastime  are  vanishing  already !  ” 

Whether  it  was  that  the  harp-strings  were  broken, 
the  violin  out  of  tune,  or  the  flautist  out  of  breath,  so 
it  chanced  that  the  music  had  ceased,  and  the  dancers 
come  abruptly  to  a  pause.  All  that  motley  throng  of 
rioters  was  dissolved  as  suddenly  as  it  had  been  drawn 
together.  In  Miriam’s  remembrance  the  scene  had  a 
character  of  fantasy.  It  was  as  if  a  company  of  satyrs, 
fauns,  and  nymphs,  with  Pan  in  the  midst  of  them, 
had  been  disporting  themselves  in  these  venerable 
woods  only  a  moment  ago  ;  and  now  in  another  mo¬ 
ment,  because  some  profane  eye  had  looked  at  them 
too  closely,  or  some  intruder  had  cast  a  shadow  on 
their  mirth,  the  sylvan  pageant  had  utterly  disap¬ 
peared.  If  a  few  of  the  merry-makers  lingered  among 
the  trees,  they  had  hidden  their  racy  peculiarities  un¬ 
der  the  garb  and  aspect  of  ordinary  people,  and  shel¬ 
tered  themselves  in  the  weary  commonplace  of  daily 
life.  Just  an  instant  before  it  was  Arcadia  and  the 
Golden  Age.  The  spell  being  broken,  it  was  now 
only  that  old  tract  of  pleasure-ground,  close  by  the 
people’s  gate  of  Pome,  —  a  tract  where  the  crimes 
and  calamities  of  ages,  the  many  battles,  blood  reck- 


112 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


lessly  poured  out,  and  deaths  of  myriads,  have  cor¬ 
rupted  all  the  soil,  creating  an  influence  that  makes 
the  air  deadly  to  human  lungs. 

“  You  must  leave  me,”  said  Miriam  to  Donatello, 
more  imperatively  than  before ;  u  have  I  not  said  it  ? 
Go  ;  and  look  not  behind  you.” 

“  Miriam,”  whispered  Donatello,  grasping  her  hand 
forcibly,  “  who  is  it  that  stands  in  the  shadow  yonder, 
beckoning  you  to  follow  him  ?  ” 

“  Hush ;  leave  me  !  ”  repeated  Miriam.  “  Your 
hour  is  past ;  his  hour  has  come.” 

Donatello  still  gazed  in  the  direction  which  he  had 
indicated,  and  the  expression  of  his  face  was  fearfully 
changed,  being  so  disordered,  perhaps  with  terror,  — 
at  all  events  with  anger  and  invincible  repugnance,  — 
that  Miriam  hardly  knew  him.  His  lips  were  drawn 
apart  so  as  to  disclose  his  set  teeth,  thus  giving  him 
a  look  of  animal  rage,  which  we  seldom  see  except  in 
persons  of  the  simplest  and  rudest  natures.  A  shudder 
seemed  to  pass  through  his  very  bones. 

“  I  hate  him  !  ”  muttered  he. 

“  Be  satisfied  ;  I  hate  him  too  !  ”  said  Miriam. 

She  had  no  thought  of  making  this  avowal,  but  was 
irresistibly  drawn  to  it  by  the  sympathy  of  the  dark 
emotion  in  her  own  breast  with  that  so  strongly  ex¬ 
pressed  by  Donatello.  Two  drops  of  water  or  of  blood 
do  not  more  naturally  flow  into  each  other  than  did 
her  hatred  into  his. 

“  Shall  I  clutch  him  by  the  throat  ?  ”  whispered 
Donatello,  with  a  savage  scowl.  “  Bid  me  do  so,  and 
we  are  rid  of  him  forever.” 

“  In  Heaven’s  name,  no  violence  !  ”  exclaimed  Mir¬ 
iam,  affrighted  out  of  the  scornful  control  which  she 
had  hitherto  held  over  her  companion,  by  the  fierce* 


THE  SYLVAN  DANCE .  1VS 

ness  that  he  so  suddenly  developed.  “  Oh,  have  pity 
on  me,  Donatello,  if  for  nothing  else,  yet  because  in 
the  midst  of  my  wretchedness  I  let  myself  be  your 
playmate  for  this  one  wild  hour  !  Follow  me  no 
farther.  Henceforth,  leave  me  to  my  doom.  Dear 
friend,  —  kind,  simple,  loving  friend,  —  make  me  not 
more  wretched  by  the  remembrance  of  having  thrown 
fierce  hates  or  loves  into  the  wellspring  of  your  happy 
life!” 

“  Not  follow  you !  ”  repeated  Donatello,  soothed  from 
anger  into  sorrow,  less  by  the  purport  of  what  she  said, 
than  by  the  melancholy  sweetness  of  her  voice,  —  “  not 
follow  you !  What  other  path  have  I  ?  ” 

“We  will  talk  of  it  once  again,”  said  Miriam,  still 
soothingly ;  “  soon  —  to-morrow  —  when  you  will ;  only 
leave  me  now.” 

VOL.  VI. 


CHAPTER  XI. 


FRAGMENTARY  SENTENCES. 

In  the  Borghese  Grove,  so  recently  uproarious  with 
merriment  and  music,  there  remained  only  Miriam  and 
her  strange  follower. 

A.  solitude  had  suddenly  spread  itself  around  them. 
It  perhaps  symbolized  a  peculiar  character  in  the  re¬ 
lation  of  these  two,  insulating  them,  and  building  up 
an  insuperable  barrier  between  their  life-streams  and 
other  currents,  which  might  seem  to  flow  in  close 
vicinity.  For  it  is  one  of  the  chief  earthly  incommod¬ 
ities  of  some  species  of  misfortune,  or  of  a  great 
crime,  that  it  makes  the  actor  in  the  one,  or  the  suf¬ 
ferer  of  the  other,  an  alien  in  the  world,  by  interpos¬ 
ing  a  wholly  unsympathetic  medium  betwixt  himself 
and  those  whom  he  yearns  to  meet. 

Owing,  it  may  be,  to  this  moral  estrangement, — 
this  chill  remoteness  of  their  position,  —  there  have 
come  to  us  but  a  few  vague  whisperings  of  what  passed 
in  Miriam’s  interview  that  afternoon  with  the  sinister 
personage  who  had  dogged  her  footsteps  ever  since  the 
visit  to  the  catacomb.  In  weaving  these  mystic  utter¬ 
ances  into  a  continuous  scene,  we  undertake  a  task  re¬ 
sembling  in  its  perplexity  that  of  gathering  up  and 
piecing  together  the  fragments,  of  a  letter  which  has 
been  torn  and  scattered  to  the  winds.  Many  words  of 
deep  significance,  many  entire  sentences,  and  those 
possibly  the  most  important  ones,  have  flown  too  far 


FRAGMENTARY  SENTENCES. 


115 


on  the  winged  breeze  to  be  recovered.  If  we  insert 
our  own  conjectural  amendments,  we  perhaps  give  a 
purport  utterly  at  variance  with  the  true  one.  Yet 
unless  we  attempt  something  in  this  way,  there  must 
remain  an  unsightly  gap,  and  a  lack  of  continuousness 
and  dependence  in  our  narrative  ;  so  that  it  would 
arrive  at  certain  inevitable  catastrophes  without  due 
warning  of  their  imminence. 

Of  so  much  we  are  sure,  that  there  seemed  to  be  a 
sadly  mysterious  fascination  in  the  influence  of  this  ill- 
omened  person  over  Miriam ;  it  was  such  as  beasts  and 
reptiles  of  subtle  and  evil  nature  sometimes  exercise 
upon  their  victims.  Marvellous  it  was  to  see  the  hope¬ 
lessness  with  which  —  being  naturally  of  so  courageous 
a  spirit  —  she  resigned  herself  to  the  thraldom  in  which 
he  held  her.  That  iron  chain,  of  which  some  of  the 
massive  links  were  round  her  feminine  waist,  and  the 
others  in  his  ruthless  hand,  —  or  which,  perhaps,  bound 
the  pair  together  by  a  bond  equally  torturing  to  each, 
—  must  have  been  forged  in  some  such  unhallowed 
furnace  as  is  only  kindled  by  evil  passions  and  fed  by 
evil  deeds. 

Yet,  let  us  trust,  there  may  have  been  no  crime  in 
Miriam,  but  only  one  of  those  fatalities  which  are 
among  the  most  insoluble  riddles  propounded  to  mor¬ 
tal  comprehension  ;  the  fatal  decree  by  which  every 
crime  is  made  to  be  the  agony  of  many  innocent  per¬ 
sons,  as  well  as  of  the  single  guilty  one. 

It  was,  at  any  rate,  but  a  feeble  and  despairing  kind 
of  remonstrance  which  she  had  now  the  energy  to  op¬ 
pose  against  his  persecution. 

“  You  follow  me  too  closely,”  she  said,  in  low,  falter¬ 
ing  accents  ;  u  you  allow  me  too  scanty  room  to  draw 
my  breath.  Do  you  know  what  will  be  the  end  of 
this?” 


116 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


“  I  know  well  what  must  be  the  end,”  he  replied. 

“  Tell  me,  then,”  said  Miriam,  “  that  I  may  com¬ 
pare  your  foreboding  with  my  own.  Mine  is  a  very 
dark  one.” 

“  There  can  be  but  one  result,  and  that  soon,”  an¬ 
swered  the  model.  “  You  must  throw  off  your  present 
mask  and  assume  another.  You  must  vanish  out  of 
the  scene  :  quit  Rome  with  me,  and  leave  no  trace 
whereby  to  follow  you.  It  is  in  my  power,  as  you  well 
know,  to  compel  your  acquiescence  in  my  bidding. 
You  are  aware  of  the  penalty  of  a  refusal.” 

“Not  that  penalty  with  which  you  would  terrify 
me,”  said  Miriam  ;  “  another  there  may  be,  but  not  so 
grievous.” 

“  What  is  that  other  ?  ”  he  inquired. 

“  Death  !  simply  death  !  ”  she  answered. 

“  Death,”  said  her  persecutor,  “  is  not  so  simple  and 
opportune  a  thing  as  you  imagine.  You  are  strong 
and  warm  with  life.  Sensitive  and  irritable  as  your 
spirit  is,  these  many  months  of  trouble,  this  latter 
thraldom  in  which  I  hold  you,  have  scarcely  made 
your  cheek  paler  than  I  saw  it  in  your  girlhood.  Mir¬ 
iam,  —  for  I  forbear  to  speak  another  name,  at  which 
these  leaves  would  shiver  above  our  heads,  —  Miriam, 
you  cannot  die  !  ” 

“  Might  not  a  dagger  find  my  heart  ?  ”  said  she,  for 
the  first  time  meeting  his  eyes.  “  W oukl  not  poison 
make  an  end  of  me  ?  Will  not  the  Tiber  drown  me  ?  ” 

“It  might,”  he  answered;  “for  I  allow  that  you 
are  mortal.  But,  Miriam,  believe  me,  it  is  not  your 
fate  to  die  while  there  remains  so  much  to  be  sinned 
and  suffered  in  the  world.  We  have  a  destiny  which 
we  must  needs  fulfil  together.  I,  too,  have  struggled 
to  escape  it.  I  was  as  anxious  as  yourself  to  break  th« 


FRAGMENTARY  SENTENCES. 


117 


tie  between  us,  —  to  bury  the  past  in  a  fathomless 
grave,  —  to  make  it  impossible  that  we  should  ever 
meet,  until  you  confront  me  at  the  bar  of  Judgment ! 
You  little  can  imagine  what  steps  I  took  to  render  all 
this  secure ;  and  what  was  the  result  ?  Our  strange 
interview  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth  convinced  me  of 
the  futility  of  my  design.” 

“  Ah,  fatal  chance !  ”  cried  Miriam,  covering  her 
face  with  her  hands. 

“  Yes,  your  heart  trembled  with  horror  when  you 
recognized  me,”  rejoined  he  ;  “  but  you  did  not  guess 
that  there  was  an  equal  horror  in  my  own !  ” 

“  Why  would  not  the  weight  of  earth  above  our 
heads  have  crumbled  down  upon  us  both,  forcing  us 
apart,  but  burying  us  equally?”  cried  Miriam,  in  a 
burst  of  vehement  passion.  “  Oh,  that  we  could  have 
wandered  in  those  dismal  passages  till  we  both  per¬ 
ished,  taking  opposite  paths  in  the  darkness,  so  that 
when  we  lay  down  to  die  our  last  breaths  might  not 
mingle  !  ” 

“  It  were  vain  to  wish  it,”  said  the  model.  “  In  all 
that  labyrinth  of  midnight  paths,  we  should  have  found 
one  another  out  to  live  or  die  together.  Our  fates 
cross  and  are  entangled.  The  threads  are  twisted  into 
a  strong  cord,  which  is  dragging  us  to  an  evil  doom. 
Could  the  knots  be  severed,  we  might  escape.  But 
neither  can  your  slender  fingers  untie  these  knots,  nor 
my  masculine  force  break  them.  We  must  submit !  ” 
“  Pray  for  rescue,  as  I  have,”  exclaimed  Miriam. 
“  Pray  for  deliverance  from  me,  since  I  am  your  evil 
genius,  as  you  mine.  Dark  as  your  life  has  been,  I 
have  known  you  to  pray  in  times  past !  ” 

At  these  words  of  Miriam,  a  tremor  and  horror  ap¬ 
peared  to  seize  upon  her  persecutor,  insomuch  that  he 


118 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENT. 


shook  and  grew  ashy  pale  before  her  eyes.  In  this 
man’s  memory,  there  was  something  that  made  it  aw¬ 
ful  for  him  to  think  of  prayer ;  nor  would  any  torture 
be  more  intolerable  than  to  be  reminded  of  such  divine 
comfort  and  succor  as  await  pious  souls  merely  for  the 
asking.  This  torment  was  perhaps  the  token  of  a  na¬ 
tive  temperament  deeply  susceptible  of  religious  im¬ 
pressions,  but  which  had  been  wronged,  violated,  and 
debased,  until,  at  length,  it  was  capable  only  of  terror 
from  the  sources  that  were  intended  for  our  purest 
and  loftiest  consolation.  He  looked  so  fearfully  at 
her,  and  with  such  intense  pain  struggling  in  his  eyes, 
that  Miriam  felt  pity. 

And,  now,  all  at  once,  it  struck  her  that  he  might 
be  mad.  It  was  an  idea  that  had  never  before  seri¬ 
ously  occurred  to  her  mind,  although,  as  soon  as  sug¬ 
gested,  it  fitted  marvellously  into  many  circumstances 
that  lay  within  her  knowledge.  But,  alas !  such  was 
her  evil  fortune,  that,  whether  mad  or  no,  his  power 
over  her  remained  the  same,  and  was  likely  to  be  used 
only  the  more  tyrannously,  if  exercised  by  a  lunatic. 

44  I  would  not  give  you  pain,”  she  said,  soothingly ; 
44  your  faich  allows  you  the  consolations  of  penance 
and  absolution.  Try  what  help  there  may  be  in  these, 
and  leave  me  to  myself.” 

44  Do  not  think  it,  Miriam,”  said  he ;  44  we  are  bound 
together,  and  can  never  part  again.” 

44  Why  should  it  seem  so  impossible  ?  ”  she  rejoined. 
44  Think  how  I  had  escaped  from  all  the  past !  I  had 
made  for  myself  a  new  sphere,  and  found  new  friends, 
new  occupations,  new  hopes  and  enjoyments.  My 
heart,  methinks,  was  almost  as  unburdened  as  if  there 
had  been  no  miserable  life  behind  me.  The  human 
spirit  does  not  perish  of  a  single  wound,  nor  exhaust 


FRAGMENTARY  SENTENCES.  119 

itself  in  a  single  trial  of  life.  Let  us  but  keep  asun¬ 
der,  and  all  may  go  well  for  both.” 

“  We  fancied  ourselves  forever  sundered./’  he  re¬ 
plied.  44  Yet  we  met  once,  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth ; 
and,  were  we  to  part  now,  our  fates  would  fling  us 
together  again  in  a  desert,  on  a  mountain  -  top,  or  in 
whatever  spot  seemed  safest.  You  speak  in  vain, 
therefore.” 

u  You  mistake  your  own  will  for  an  iron  necessity,” 
said  Miriam  ;  44  otherwise,  you  might  have  suffered  me 
to  glide  past  you  like  a  ghost,  when  we  met  among 
those  ghosts  of  ancient  days.  Even  now  you  might 
bid  me  pass  as  freely.” 

44  Never !  ”  said  he,  with  immitigable  will ;  44  your 
reappearance  has  destroyed  the  work  of  years.  You 
know  the  power  that  I  have  over  you.  Obey  my  bid¬ 
ding  ;  or,  within  a  short  time,  it  shall  be  exercised  : 
nor  will  I  cease  to  haunt  you  till  the  moment  comes.” 

44  Then,”  said  Miriam,  more  calmly,  44 1  foresee  the 
end,  and  have  already  warned  you  of  it.  It  will  be 
death  !  ” 

44  Your  own  death,  Miriam,  —  or  mine  ?  ”  he  asked, 
looking  fixedly  at  her. 

44  Do  you  imagine  me  a  murderess  ?  ”  said  she, 
shuddering ;  44  you,  at  least,  have  no  right  to  think  me 
so!” 

44  Yet,”  rejoined  he,  with  a  glance  of  dark  meaning, 
44  men  have  said  that  this  white  hand  had  once  a  crim¬ 
son  stain.”  He  took  her  hand  as  he  spoke,  and  held 
it  in  his  own,  in  spite  of  the  repugnance,  amounting 
to  nothing  short  of  agony,  with  which  she  struggled  to 
regain  it.  Holding  it  up  to  the  fading  light  (for  there 
was  already  dimness  among  the  trees),  he  appeared 
to  examine  it  closely,  as  if  to  discover  the  imaginary 


120 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


blood-stain  with  which  he  taunted  her.  He  smiled  as 
he  let  it  go.  “  It  looks  very  white,’’  said  he  ;  u  but  I 
have  known  hands  as  white,  which  all  the  water  in  the 
ocean  would  not  have  washed  clean.” 

“  It  had  no  stain,”  retorted  Miriam,  bitterly,  “  until 
you  grasped  it  in  your  own.” 

The  wind  has  blown  away  whatever  else  they  may 
have  spoken. 

They  went  together  towards  the  town,  and,  on  their 
way,  continued  to  make  reference,  no  doubt,  to  some 
strange  and  dreadful  history  of  their  former  life,  be¬ 
longing  equally  to  this  dark  man  and  to  the  fair  and 
youthful  woman  whom  he  persecuted.  In  their  words, 
or  in  the  breath  that  uttered  them,  there  seemed  to 
be  an  odor  of  guilt,  and  a  scent  of  blood.  Yet,  how 
can  we  imagine  that  a  stain  of  ensanguined  crime 
should  attach  to  Miriam !  Or  how,  on  the  other  hand, 
should  spotless  innocence  be  subjected  to  a  thraldom 
like  that  which  she  endured  from  the  spectre,  whom 
she  herself  had  evoked  out  of  the  darkness  !  Be  this 
as  it  might,  Miriam,  we  have  reason  to  believe,  still 
continued  to  beseech  him,  humbly,  passionately,  wildly, 
only  to  go  his  way,  and  leave  her  free  to  follow  her 
own  sad  path. 

Thus  they  strayed  onward  through  the  green  wil¬ 
derness  of  the  Borghese  grounds,  and  soon  came  near 
the  city  wall,  where,  had  Miriam  raised  her  eyes,  she 
might  have  seen  Hilda  and  the  sculptor  leaning  on 
the  parapet.  But  she  walked  in  a  mist  of  trouble,  and 
could  distinguish  little  beyond  its  limits.  As  they 
came  within  public  observation,  her  persecutor  fell  be¬ 
hind,  throwing  off  the  imperious  manner  which  he  had 
assumed  during  their  solitary  interview.  The  Porta 
del  Popolo  swarmed  with  life.  The  merry-makers,  who 


FRAGMENTARY  SENTENCES 


121 


had  spent  the  feast-day  outside  the  walls,  were  now 
thronging  in ;  a  party  of  horsemen  were  entering  be¬ 
neath  the  arch  ;  a  travelling-carriage  had  been  drawn 
up  just  within  the  verge,  and  was  passing  through  the 
villanous  ordeal  of  the  papal  custom-house.  In  the 
broad  piazza,  too,  there  was  a  motley  crowd. 

But  the  stream  of  Miriam’s  trouble  kept  its  way 
through  this  flood  of  human  life,  and  neither  mingled 
with  it  nor  was  turned  aside.  With  a  sad  kind  of 
feminine  ingenuity,  she  found  a  way  to  kneel  before 
her  tyrant  undetected,  though  in  full  sight  of  all  the 
people,  still  beseeching  him  for  freedom,  and  in  vain. 


CHAPTER  XII. 


A  STKOLL  ON  THE  PINCIAN. 

Hilda,  after  giving  the  last  touches  to  the  picture 
of  Beatrice  Cenci,  had  flown  down  from  her  dove-cote, 
late  in  the  afternoon,  and  gone  to  the  Pincian  Hill,  in 
the  hope  of  hearing  a  strain  or  two  of  exhilarating 
music.  There,  as  it  happened,  she  met  the  sculptor ; 
for,  to  say  the  truth,  Kenyon  had  well  noted  the  fair 
artist’s  ordinary  way  of  life,  and  was  accustomed  to 
shape  his  own  movements,  so  as  to  .bring  him  often 
within  her  sphere. 

The  Pincian  Hill  is  the  favorite  promenade  of  the 
Roman  aristocracy.  At  the  present  day,  however,  like 
most  other  Roman  possessions,  it  belongs  less  to  the 
native  inhabitants  than  to  the  barbarians  from  Gaul, 
Great  Britain,  and  beyond  the  sea,  who  have  estab¬ 
lished  a  peaceful  usurpation  over  whatever  is  enjoya¬ 
ble  or  memorable  in  the  Eternal  City.  These  foreign 
guests  are  indeed  ungrateful,  if  they  do  not  breathe  a 
prayer  for  Pope  Clement,  or  whatever  Holy  Father  it 
may  have  been,  who  levelled  the  summit  of  the  mount 
so  skilfully,  and  bounded  it  with  the  parapet  of  the 
city  wall ;  who  laid  out  those  broad  walks  and  drives, 
and  overhung  them  with  the  deepening  shade  of  many 
kinds  of  tree ;  who  scattered  the  flowers  of  all  “seasons, 
and  of  every  clime,  abundantly  over  those  green,  cen¬ 
tral  lawns  ;  who  scooped  out  hollows,  in  fit  places, 
and,  setting  great  basins  of  marble  in  them,  caused 


A  STROLL  ON  THE  PINCIAN . 


128 


ever-gushing  fountains  to  fill  them  to  the  brim  ;  who 
reared  up  the  immemorial  obelisk  out  of  the  soil  that 
had  long  hidden  it ;  who  placed  pedestals  along  the 
borders  of  the  avenues,  and  crowned  them  with  busts 
of  that  multitude  of  worthies  —  statesmen,  heroes,  art¬ 
ists,  men  of  letters  and  of  song  —  whom  the  whole 
world  claims  as  its  chief  ornaments,  though  Italy  pro- 
duced  them  all.  In  a  word,  the  Pincian  garden  is 
one  of  the  things  that  reconcile  the  stranger  (since  he 
fully  appreciates  the  enjoyment,  and  feels  nothing  of 
the  cost)  to  the  rule  of  an  irresponsible  dynasty  of 
Holy  Fathers,  who  seem  to  have  aimed  at  making  life 
as  agreeable  an  affair  as  it  can  well  be. 

In  this  pleasant  spot,  the  red-trousered  French  sol¬ 
diers  are  always  to  be  seen  ;  bearded  and  grizzled  vet¬ 
erans,  perhaps  with  medals  of  Algiers  or  the  Crimea 
on  their  breasts.  To  them  is  assigned  the  peaceful 
duty  of  seeing  that  children  do  not  trample  on  the 
flower-beds,  nor  any  youthful  lover  rifle  them  of  their 
fragrant  blossoms  to  stick  in  the  beloved  one’s  hair. 
Here  sits  (drooping  upon  some  marble  bench,  in  the 
treacherous  sunshine )  the  consumptive  girl,  whose 
friends  have  brought  her,  for  cure,  to  a  climate  that 
instils  poison  into  its  very  purest  breath.  Here,  all 
day,  come  nursery-maids,  burdened  with  rosy  English 
babies,  or  guiding  the  footsteps  of  little  travellers  from 
the  far  Western  world.  Here,  in  the  sunny  after¬ 
noons,  roll  and  rumble  all  kinds  of  equipages,  from  the 
cardinal’s  old-fashioned  and  gorgeous  purple  carriage 
to  the  gay  barouche  of  modern  date.  Here  horsemen 
gallop  on  thoroughbred  steeds.  Here,  in  short,  all  the 
transitory  population  of  Pome,  the  world’s  great  wa¬ 
tering-place,  rides,  drives,  or  promenades  !  Here  are 
beautiful  sunsets ;  and  here,  whichever  way  you  turn 


124 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


your  eyes,  are  scenes  as  well  worth  gazing  at,  both  in 
themselves  and  for  their  historic  interest,  as  any  that 
the  sun  ever  rose  and  set  upon.  Here,  too,  on  certain 
afternoons  of  the  week,  a  French  military  band  flings 
out  rich  music  over  the  poor  old  city,  floating  her  with 
strains  as  loud  as  those  of  her  own  echoless  triumphs. 

Hilda  and  the  sculptor  (by  the  contrivance  of  the 
latter,  who  loved  best  to  be  alone  with  his  young 
country-woman)  had  wandered  beyond  the  throng  of 
promenaders,  whom  they  left  in  a  dense  cluster  around 
the  music.  They  strayed,  indeed,  to  the  farthest 
point  of  the  Pincian  Hill,  and  leaned  over  the  para¬ 
pet,  looking  down  upon  the  Muro  Torto,  a  massive 
fragment  of  the  oldest  Roman  wall,  which  juts  over, 
as  if  ready  to  tumble  down  by  its  own  weight,  yet 
seems  still  the  most  indestructible  piece  of  work  that 
men’s  hands  ever  piled  together.  In  the  blue  distance 
rose  Soracte,  and  other  heights,  which  have  gleamed 
afar,  to  our  imaginations,  but  look  scarcely  real  to  our 
bodily  eyes,  because,  being  dreamed  about  so  much, 
they  have  taken  the  aerial  tints  which  belong  only  to 
a  dream.  These,  nevertheless,  are  the  solid  frame¬ 
work  of  hills  that  shut  in  Rome,  and  its  wide  sur¬ 
rounding  Campagna ;  no  land  of  dreams,  but  the 
broadest  page  of  history,  crowded  so  full  with  mem¬ 
orable  events  that  one  obliterates  another ;  as  if  Time 
had  crossed  and  recrossed  his  own  records  till  they 
grew  illegible. 

But,  not  to  meddle  with  history,  —  with  which  our 
narrative  is  no  otherwise  concerned,  than  that  the 
very  dust  of  Rome  is  historic,  and  inevitably  settles 
on  our  page  and  mingles  with  our  ink,  —  we  will  re* 
turn  to  our  two  friends,  who  were  still  leaning  ovei 
the  wall.  Beneath  them  lay  the  broad  sweep  of  the 


A  STROLL  ON  THE  PTNCIAN. 


125 


Borghese  grounds,  covered  with  trees,  amid  which  ap¬ 
peared  the  white  gleam  of  pillars  and  statues,  and 
the  flash  of  an  upspringing  fountain,  all  to  be  over¬ 
shadowed  at  a  later  period  of  the  year  by  the  thicker 
growth  of  foliage. 

The  advance  of  vegetation,  in  this  softer  climate,  is 
less  abrupt  than  the  inhabitant  of  the  cold  North  is 
accustomed  to  observe.  Beginning  earlier,  —  even  in 
February,  —  Spring  is  not  compelled  to  burst  into 
Summer  with  such  headlong  haste ;  there  is  time  to 
dwell  upon  each  opening  beauty,  and  to  enjoy  the 
budding  leaf,  the  tender  green,  the  sweet  youth  and 
freshness  of  the  year ;  it  gives  us  its  maiden  charm, 
before  settling  into  the  married  Summer,  which,  again, 
does  not  so  soon  sober  itself  into  matronly  Autumn. 
In  our  own  country,  the  virgin  Spring  hastens  to  its 
bridal  too  abruptly.  But,  here,  after  a  month  or  two 
of  kindly  growth,  the  leaves  of  the  young  trees,  which 
cover  that  portion  of  the  Borghese  grounds  nearest 
the  city  wall,  were  still  in  their  tender  half-develop¬ 
ment. 

In  the  remoter  depths,  among  the  old  groves  of  ilex- 
trees,  Hilda  and  Kenyon  heard  the  faint  sound  of 
music,  laughter,  and  mingling  voices.  It  was  proba¬ 
bly  the  uproar  —  spreading  even  so  far  as  the  walls 
of  Borne,  and  growing  faded  and  melancholy  in  its 
passage  —  of  that  wild  sylvan  merriment,  which  we 
have  already  attempted  to  describe.  By  and  by,  it 
ceased ;  although  the  two  listeners  still  tried  to  dis¬ 
tinguish  it  between  the  bursts  of  nearer  music  from 
the  military  band.  But  there  was  no  renewal  of  that 
distant  mirth.  Soon  afterwards,  they  saw  a  solitary 
figure  advancing  along  one  of  the  paths  that  lead  from 
the  obscurer  part  of  the  ground  towards  the  gateway. 


126 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


44  Look !  is  it  not  Donatello  ?  ”  said  Hilda. 

44  He  it  is,  beyond  a  doubt,'’  replied  the  sculptor. 
44  But  how  gravely  he  walks,  and  with  what  long  looks 
behind  him !  He  seems  either  very  weary,  or  very 
sad.  I  should  not  hesitate  to  call  it  sadness,  if  Dona¬ 
tello  were  a  creature  capable  of  the  sin  and  folly  of 
low  spirits.  In  all  these  hundred  paces,  while  we 
have  been  watching  him,  he  has  not  made  one  of  those 
little  caprioles  in  the  air  which  are  characteristic  of 
his  natural  gait.  I  begin  to  doubt  whether  he  is  a 
veritable  Faun.” 

44  Then,”  said  Hilda,  with  perfect  simplicity,  44  you 
have  thought  him  —  and  do  think  him  —  one  of  that 
strange,  wild,  happy  race  of  creatures,  that  used  to 
laugh  and  sport  in  the  woods,  in  the  old,  old  times  ? 
So  do  I,  indeed !  But  I  never  quite  believed,  till 
now,  that  fauns  existed  anywhere  but  in  poetry.” 

The  sculptor  at  first  merely  smiled.  Then,  as  the 
idea  took  further  possession  of  his  mind,  he  laughed 
outright,  and  wished  from  the  bottom  of  his  heart 
(being  in  love  with  Hilda,  though  he  had  never  told 
her  so)  that  he  could  have  rewarded  or  punished  her 
for  its  pretty  absurdity  with  a  kiss. 

44  O  Hilda,  what  a  treasure  of  sweet  faith  and  pure 
imagination  you  hide  under  that  little  straw  hat !  ” 
cried  he,  at  length.  44  A  Faun  !  a  Faun  !  Great  Pan 
is  not  dead,  then,  after  all!  The  whole  tribe  of  myth¬ 
ical  creatures  yet  live  in  the  moonlit  seclusion  of  a 
young  girl’s  fancy,  and  find  it  a  lovelier  abode  and 
play-place,  I  doubt  not,  than  their  Arcadian  haunts  of 
yore.  What  bliss,  if  a  man  of  marble,  like  myself, 
could  stray  thither,  too  !  ” 

44  Why  do  you  laugh  so  ?  ”  asked  Hilda,  redden¬ 
ing  ;  for  she  was  a  little  disturbed  at  Kenyon’s  ridi- 


A  STROLL  ON  THE  PINCIAN. 


127 


cule,  however  kindly  expressed.  “  What  can  I  have 
said,  that  you  think  so  very  foolish  ?  ” 

“Well,  not  foolish,  then,”  rejoined  the  sculptor, 
“  but  wiser,  it  may  be,  than  I  can  fathom.  Really, 
however,  the  idea  does  strike  one  as  delightfully  fresh, 
when  we  consider  Donatello’s  position  and  external 
environment.  Why,  my  dear  Hilda,  he  is  a  Tuscan 
born,  of  an  old  noble  race  in  that  part  of  Italy ;  and 
he  has  a  moss-grown  tower  among  the  Apennines, 
where  he  and  his  forefathers  have  dwelt,  under  their 
own  vines  and  fig-trees,  from  an  unknown  antiquity. 
His  boyish  passion  for  Miriam  has  introduced  him 
familiarly  to  our  little  circle ;  and  our  republican  and 
artistic  simplicity  of  intercourse  has  included  this 
young  Italian,  on  the  same  terms  as  one  of  ourselves. 
But,  if  we  paid  due  respect  to  rank  and  title,  we 
should  bend  reverentially  to  Donatello,  and  saline 
him  as  his  Excellency  the  Count  di  Monte  Beni.” 

“  That  is  a  droll  idea,  —  much  droller  than  his  being 
a  Faun !  ”  said  Hilda,  laughing  in  her  turn.  “  This 
does  not  quite  satisfy  me,  however,  especially  as  you 
yourself  recognized  and  acknowledged  his  wonderful 
resemblance  to  the  statue.” 

“  Except  as  regards  the  pointed  ears,”  said  Ken¬ 
yon  ;  adding,  aside,  “  and  one  other  little  peculiarity, 
generally  observable  in  the  statues  of  fauns.” 

“  As  for  his  Excellency  the  Count  di  Monte  Beni’s 
ears,”  replied  Hilda,  smiling  again  at  the  dignity  with 
which  this  title  invested  their  playful  friend,  “you 
know  we  could  never  see  their  shape,  on  account  of 
his  clustering  curls.  Nay,  I  remember,  he  once  started 
back,  as  shyly  as  a  wild  deer,  when  Miriam  made  a 
pretense  of  examining  them.  How  do  you  explain 
that?” 


128 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


“  Oh,  1  certainly  shall  not  contend  against  such  a 
weight  of  evidence  ;  the  fact  of  his  faunship  being 
otherwise  so  probable,”  answered  the  sculptor,  still 
hardly  retaining  his  gravity.  “  Faun  or  not,  Dona¬ 
tello  —  or  the  Count  di  Monte  Beni  —  is  a  singularly 
wild  creature,  and,  as  I  have  remarked  on  other  occa- 
sions,  though  very  gentle,  does  not  love  to  be  touched. 
Speaking  in  no  harsh  sense,  there  is  a  great  deal  of 
animal  nature  in  him,  as  if  he  had  been  born  in  the 
woods,  and  had  run  wild  all  his  childhood,  and  were 
as  yet  but  imperfectly  domesticated.  Life,  even  in 
our  day,  is  very  simple  and  unsophisticated  in  some  of 
the  shaggy  nooks  of  the  Apennines.” 

“  It  annoys  me  very  much,”  said  Hilda,  “  this  incli¬ 
nation,  which  most  people  have,  to  explain  away  the 
wonder  and  the  mystery  out  of  everything.  Why 
could  not  you  allow  me  —  and  yourself,  too  —  the  sat¬ 
isfaction  of  thinking  him  a  Faun  ?  ” 

“  Pray  keep  your  belief,  dear  Hilda,  if  it  makes  you 
any  happier,”  said  the  sculptor;  “and  I  shall  do  my 
best  to  become  a  convert.  Donatello  has  asked  me  to 
spend  the  summer  with  him,  in  his  ancestral  tower, 
where  I  purpose  investigating  the  pedigree  of  these 
sylvan  counts,  his  forefathers  ;  and  if  their  shadows 
beckon  me  into  dreamland,  I  shall  willingly  follow. 
By  the  by,  speaking  of  Donatello,  there  is  a  point  on 
which  I  should  like  to  be  enlightened.” 

“  Can  I  help  you,  then  ?  ”  said  Hilda,  in  answer  to 
his  look. 

“  Is  there  the  slightest  chance  of  his  winning  Mir¬ 
iam’s  affections?  ”  suggested  Kenyon. 

“  Miriam  !  she,  so  accomplished  and  gifted !  ”  ex¬ 
claimed  Hilda;  “and  he,  a  rude,  uncultivated  boy! 
No,  no,  no  !  ” 


A  STROLL  ON  THE  P1NCJAN. 


129 


44  It  would  seem  impossible,”  said  the  sculptor. 
“But,  on  the  other  hand,  a  gifted  woman  flings  away 
her  affections  so  unaccountably,  sometimes  !  Miriam, 
of  late,  has  been  very  morbid  and  miserable,  as  we 
both  know.  Young  as  she  is,  the  morning  light  seems 
already  to  have  faded  out  of  her  life  ;  and  now  comes 
Donatello,  with  natural  sunshine  enough  for  himself 
and  her,  and  offers  her  the  opportunity  of  making  her 
heart  and  life  all  new  and  cheery  again.  People  of 
high  intellectual  endowments  do  not  require  similar 
ones  in  those  they  love.  They  are  just  the  persons  to 
appreciate  the  wholesome  gush  of  natural  feeling,  the 
honest  affection,  the  simple  joy,  the  fulness  of  content¬ 
ment  with  what  he  loves,  which  Miriam  sees  in  Dona¬ 
tello.  True  ;  she  may  call  him  a  simpleton.  It  is  a 
necessity  of  the  case  ;  for  a  man  loses  the  capacity  for 
this  kind  of  affection,  in  proportion  as  he  cultivates 
and  refines  himself.” 

44  Dear  me  !  ”  said  Hilda,  drawing  imperceptibly 
away  from  her  companion.  44  Is  this  the  penalty  of 
refinement  ?  Pardon  me  ;  I  do  not  believe  it.  It  is 
because  you  are  a  sculptor,  that  you  think  nothing  can 
be  finely  wrought  except  it  be  cold  and  hard,  like  the 
marble  in  which  your  ideas  take  shape.  I  am  a 
painter,  and  know  that  the  most  delicate  beauty  may 
be  softened  and  warmed  throughout.” 

44 1  said  a  foolish  thing,  indeed,”  answered  the  sculp- 
tor.  44  It  surprises  me,  for  I  might  have  drawn  a 
wiser  knowledge  out  of  my  own  experience.  It  is  the 
surest  test  of  genuine  love,  that  it  brings  back  our 
early  simplicity  to  the  worldliest  of  us.” 

Thus  talking,  they  loitered  slowly  along  beside  the 
parapet  which  borders  the  level  summit  of  the  Pincian 
with  its  irregular  sweep.  At  intervals  they  looked 

VOL.  VI. 


180 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


through  the  lattice-work  of  their  thoughts  at  the  varied 
prospects  that  lay  before  and  beneath  them. 

From  the  terrace  where  they  now  stood  there  is  an 
abrupt  descent  towards  the  Piazza  del  Popolo  ;  and 
looking  down  into  its  broad  space  they  beheld  the  tall 
palatial  edifices,  the  church-domes,  and  the  ornamented 
gateway,  which  grew  and  were  consolidated  out  of  the 
thought  of  Michael  Angelo.  They  saw,  too,  the  red 
granite  obelisk,  oldest  of  things,  even  in  Rome,  which 
rises  in  the  centre  of  the  piazza,  with  a  fourfold  foun¬ 
tain  at  its  base.  All  Roman  works  and  ruins  (whether 
of  the  empire,  the  far-off  republic,  or  the  still  more 
distant  kings)  assume  a  transient,  visionary,  and  im¬ 
palpable  character  when  we  think  that  this  indestruc¬ 
tible  monument  supplied  one  of  the  recollections  which 
Moses  and  the  Israelites  bore  from  Egypt  into  the  des¬ 
ert.  Perchance,  on  beholding  the  cloudy  pillar  and 
the  fiery  column,  they  whispered  awe-stricken  to  one 
another,  “  In  its  shape  it  is  like  that  old  obelisk  which 
we  and  our  fathers  have  so  often  seen  on  the  borders 
of  the  Nile.”  And  now  that  very  obelisk,  with  hardly 
a  trace  of  decay  upon  it,  is  the  first  thing  that  the 
modern  traveller  sees  after  entering  the  Flaminian 
Gate! 

Lifting  their  eyes,  Hilda  and  her  companion  gazed 
westward,  and  saw  beyond  the  invisible  Tiber  the  Cas¬ 
tle  of  St.  Angelo ;  that  immense  tomb  of  a  pagan  em¬ 
peror,  with  the  archangel  at  its  summit. 

Still  farther  off  appeared  a  mighty  pile  of  buildings, 
surmounted  by  the  vast  dome,  which  all  of  us  have 
shaped  and  swelled  outward,  like  a  huge  bubble,  to 
the  utmost  scope  of  our  imaginations,  long  before  we 
see  it  floating  over  the  worship  of  the  city.  It  may 
be  most  worthily  seen  from  precisely  the  point  wher? 


. 


A  STROLL  ON  THE  PINC1AN. 


131 


our  two  friends  were  now  standing.  At  any  nearer 
view  the  grandeur  of  St.  Peter’s  hides  itself  behind 
the  immensity  of  its  separate  parts,  so  that  we  see 
only  the  front,  only  the  sides,  only  the  pillared  length 
and  loftiness  of  the  portico,  and  not  the  mighty  wholoo 
But  at  this  distance  the  entire  outline  of  the  world’s 
cathedral,  as  well  as  that  of  the  palace  of  the  world's 
chief  priest,  is  taken  in  at  once.  In  such  remoteness, 
moreover,  the  imagination  is  not  debarred  from  lend¬ 
ing  its  assistance,  even  while  we  have  the  reality  be¬ 
fore  our  eyes,  and  helping  the  weakness  of  human 
sense  to  do  justice  to  so  grand  an  object.  It  requires 
both  faith  and  fancy  to  enable  us  to  feel,  what  is  nev¬ 
ertheless  so  true,  that  yonder,  in  front  of  the  purple 
outline  of  hills,  is  the  grandest  edifice  ever  built  by 
man,  painted  against  God’s  loveliest  sky. 

After  contemplating  a  little  while  a  scene  which 
their  long  residence  in  Pome  had  made  familiar  to 
them,  Kenyon  and  Hilda  again  let  their  glances  fall 
into  the  piazza  at  their  feet.  They  tnere  beheld  Mir¬ 
iam,  who  had  just  entered  the  Porta  del  Popolo,  and 
was  standing  by  the  obelisk  and  fountain.  With  a 
gesture  that  impressed  Kenyon  as  at  once  suppliant 
and  imperious,  she  seemed  to  intimate  to  a  figure 
which  had  attended  her  thus  far,  that  it  was  now  her 
desire  to  be  left  alone.  The  pertinacious  model,  how¬ 
ever,  remained  immovable. 

And  the  sculptor  here  noted  a  circumstance,  which, 
according  to  the  interpretation  he  might  put  upon  it, 
was  either  too  trivial  to  be  mentioned,  or  else  so  mys¬ 
teriously  significant  that  he  found  it  difficult  to  be¬ 
lieve  his  eyes.  Miriam  knelt  down  on  the  steps  of  the 
fountain ;  so  far  there  could  be  no  question  of  the  fact. 
To  other  observers,  if  any  there  were,  she  probably 


132 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


appeared  to  take  this  attitude  merely  for  the  conven¬ 
ience  of  dipping  her  fingers  into  the  gush  of  water 
from  the  mouth  of  one  of  the  stone  lions.  But  as  she 
clasped  her  hands  together  after  thus  bathing  them, 
and  glanced  upward  at  the  model,  an  idea  took  strong 
possession  of  Kenyon’s  mind  that  Miriam  was  kneel- 
ing  to  this  dark  follower  there  in  the  world’s  face ! 

“  Do  you  see  it  ?  ”  he  said  to  Hilda. 

“  See  what  ?  ”  asked  she,  surprised  at  the  emotion 
of  his  tone.  “  I  see  Miriam,  who  has  just  bathed  her 
hands  in  that  delightfully  cool  water.  I  often  dip  my 
fingers  into  a  Roman  fountain,  and  think  of  the  brook 
that  used  to  be  one  of  my  playmates  in  my  New  Eng¬ 
land  village.” 

“  I  fancied  I  saw  something  else,”  said  Kenyon  ; 
“  but  it  was  doubtless  a  mistake.” 

But,  allowing  that  he  had  caught  a  true  glimpse 
into  the  hidden  significance  of  Miriam’s  gesture,  what 
a  terrible  thraldom  did  it  suggest !  Free  as  she  seemed 
to  be,  —  beggar  as  he  looked,  —  the  nameless  vagrant 
must  then  be  dragging  the  beautiful  Miriam  through 
the  streets  of  Rome,  fettered  and  shackled  more  cruelly 
than  any  captive  queen  of  yore  following  in  an  em¬ 
peror’s  triumph.  And  was  it  conceivable  that  she 
would  have  been  thus  enthralled  unless  some  great 
error  —  how  great  Kenyon  dared  not  think  —  or  some 
fatal  weakness  had  given  this  dark  adversary  a  van¬ 
tage-ground  ? 

“  Hilda,”  said  he,  abruptly,  “  who  and  what  is  Mir¬ 
iam  ?  Pardon  me  ;  but  are  you  sure  of  her  ?  ” 

“  Sure  of  her  !  ’’  repeated  Hilda,  with  an  angry 
blush,  for  her  friend’s  sake.  “  I  am  sure  that  she  is 
kind,  good,  and  generous  ;  a  true  and  faithful  friend, 
whom  I  love  dearly,  and  who  loves  me  as  well!  What 
more  than  this  need  I  be  sure  of  ?  ” 


A  STROLL  ON  THE  PIN  Cl  AN. 


-J  Oq 
loO 


“And  your  delicate  instincts  say  all  this  in  her 
favor  ?  —  nothing  against  her  ?  ”  continued  the  sculp¬ 
tor,  without  heeding  the  irritation  of  Hilda’s  tone. 
“  These  are  my  own  impressions,  too.  But  she  is  such 
a  mystery  !  We  do  not  even  know  whether  she  is  a 
countrywoman  of  ours,  or  an  Englishwoman,  or  a  Ger- 
man.  There  is  Anglo-Saxon  blood  in  her  veins,  one 
would  say,  and  a  right  English  accent  on  her  tongue, 
but  much  that  is  not  English  breeding,  nor  American. 
Nowhere  else  but  in  Rome,  and  as  an  artist,  could  she 
hold  a  place  in  society  without  giving  some  clew  to 
her  past  life.” 

u  I  love  her  dearly,”  said  Hilda,  still  with  displeas¬ 
ure  in  her  tone,  “  and  trust  her  most  entirely.” 

“  My  heart  trusts  her  at  least,  whatever  my  head 
may  do,”  replied  Kenyon  ;  “  and  Rome  is  not  like  one 
of  our  New  England  villages,  where  we  need  the  per¬ 
mission  of  each  individual  neighbor  for  every  act  that 
we  do,  every  word  that  we  utter,  and  every  friend  that 
we  make  or  keep.  In  these  particulars  the  papal  des¬ 
potism  allows  us  freer  breath  than  our  native  air ; 
and  if  we  like  to  take  generous  views  of  our  associates, 
we  can  do  so,  to  a  reasonable  extent,  without  ruining 
ourselves.” 

“  The  music  has  ceased,”  said  Hilda  ;  “  I  am  going 
now.” 

There  are  three  streets  that,  beginning  close  beside 
each  other,  diverge  from  the  Piazza  del  Popolo  to¬ 
wards  the  heart  of  Rome :  .on  the  left,  the  Via  del 
Babuino  ;  on  the  right,  the  Via  della  Ripetta  ;  and  be¬ 
tween  these  two  that  world-famous  avenue,  the  Corso. 
It  appeared  that  Miriam  and  her  strange  companion 
were  passing  up  the  first-mentioned  of  these  three,  and 
were  soon  hidden  from  Hilda  and  the  sculptor. 


134 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


The  two  latter  left  the  Pincian  by  the  broad  and 
stately  walk  that  skirts  along  its  brow.  Beneath  them, 
from  the  base  of  the  abrupt  descent,  the  city  spread 
wide  away  in  a  close  contiguity  of  red-earthen  roofs, 
above  which  rose  eminent  the  domes  of  a  hundred 
churches,  beside  here  and  there  a  tower,  and  the  up¬ 
per  windows  of  some  taller  or  higher  situated  palace, 
looking  down  on  a  multitude  of  palatial  abodes.  At 
a  distance,  ascending  out  of  the  central  mass  of  edi¬ 
fices,  they  could  see  the  top  of  the  Antonine  column, 
and  near  it  the  circular  roof  of  the  Pantheon  looking 
heavenward  with  its  ever-open  eye. 

Except  these  two  objects,  almost  everything  that 
they  beheld  was  mediaeval,  though  built,  indeed,  of  the 
massive  old  stones  and  indestructible  bricks  of  im¬ 
perial  Pome  ;  for  the  ruins  of  the  Coliseum,  the 
Golden  House,  and  innumerable  temples  of  Pom  an 
gods,  and  mansions  of  Caesars  and  senators,  had  sup¬ 
plied  the  material  for  all  those  gigantic  hovels,  and 
their  walls  were  cemented  with  mortar  of  inestimable 
cost,  being  made  of  precious  antique  statues,  burnt 
long  ago  for  this  petty  purpose. 

Rome,  as  it  now  exists,  has  grown  up  under  the 
Popes,  and  seems  like  nothing  but  a  heap  of  broken 
rubbish,  thrown  into  the  great  chasm  between  our  own 
days  and  the  Empire,  merely  to  fill  it  up ;  and,  for  the 
better  part  of  two  thousand  years,  its  annals  of  ob¬ 
scure  policies,  and  wars,  and  continually  recurring 
misfortunes,  seem  also  but  broken  rubbish,  as  com¬ 
pared  with  its  classic  history. 

If  we  consider  the  present  city  as  at  all  connected 
with  the  famous  one  of  old,  it  is  only  because  we  find 
it  built  over  its  grave.  A  depth  of  thirty  feet  of  soil 
has  covered  up  the  Rome  of  ancient  days,  so  that  it 


A  STROLL  ON  THE  PINCIAN. 


135 


lies  like  the  dead  corpse  of  a  giant,  decaying  for  cen¬ 
turies,  with  no  survivor  mighty  enough  even  to  bury 
it,  until  the  dust  of  all  those  years  has  gathered  slowly 
over  its  recumbent  form  and  made  a  casual  sepulchre. 

We  know  not  how  to  characterize,  in  any  accordant 
and  compatible  terms,  the  Rome  that  lies  before  us ; 
its  sunless  alleys,  and  streets  of  palaces ;  its  churches, 
lined  with  the  gorgeous  marbles  that  were  originally 
polished  for  the  adornment  of  pagan  temples ;  its 
thousands  of  evil  smells,  mixed  up  with  fragrance  of 
rich  incense,  diffused  from  as  many  censers  ;  its  little 
life,  deriving  feeble  nutriment  from  what  has  long 
been  dead.  Everywhere,  some  fragment  of  ruin  sug¬ 
gesting  the  magnificence  of  a  former  epoch ;  every¬ 
where,  moreover,  a  Cross,  —  and  nastiness  at  the  foot 
of  it.  As  the  sum  of  all,  there  are  recollections  that 
kindle  the  soul,  and  a  gloom  and  languor  that  depress 
it  beyond  any  depth  of  melancholic  sentiment  that  can 
be  elsewhere  known. 

Yet  how  is  it  possible  to  say  an  unkind  or  irreveren- 
tial  word  of  Rome  ?  The  city  of  all  time,  and  of  all 
the  world !  The  spot  for  which  man’s  great  life  and 
deeds  have  done  so  much,  and  for  which  decay  has 
done  whatever  glory  and  dominion  could  not  do  !  At 
this  moment,  the  evening  sunshine  is  flinging  its 
golden  mantle  over  it,  making  all  that  we  thought 
mean  magnificent ;  the  bells  of  all  the  churches  sud¬ 
denly  ring  out,  as  if  it  were  a  peal  of  triumph  because 
Rome  is  still  imperial. 

44  I  sometimes  fancy,”  said  Hilda,  on  whose  sus¬ 
ceptibility  the  scene  always  made  a  strong  impression, 
44  that  Romo  —  mere  Rome  —  will  crowd  everything 
else  out  of  my  heart.” 

44  Heaven  forbid!  ”  ejaculated  the  sculptor. 


136 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


They  had  now  reached  the  grand  stairs  that  ascend 
from  the  Piazza  di  Spagna  to  the  hither  brow  of  the 
Pincian  Hill.  Old  Beppo,  the  millionnaire  of  his 
ragged  fraternity,  —  it  is  a  wonder  that  no  artist 
paints  him  as  the  cripple  whom  St.  Peter  heals  at  the 
Beautiful  Gate  of  the  Temple,  —  was  just  mounting 
his  donkey  to  depart,  laden  with  the  rich  spoil  of  the 
day’s  beggary. 

Up  the  stairs,  drawing  his  tattered  cloak  about  his 
face,  came  the  model,  at  whom  Beppo  looked  askance, 
jealous  of  an  encroaclier  on  his  rightful  domain.  The 
figure  passed  away,  however,  up  the  Via  Sistina.  In 
the  piazza  below,  near  the  foot  of  the  magnificent 
steps,  stood  Miriam,  with  her  eyes  bent  on  the  ground, 
as  if  she  were  counting  those  little,  square,  uncomfort¬ 
able  paving-stones,  that  make  it  a  penitential  pilgrim¬ 
age  to  walk  in  Pome.  She  kept  this  attitude  for  sev¬ 
eral  minutes,  and  when,  at  last,  the  importunities  of  a 
beggar  disturbed  her  from  it,  she  seemed  bewildered 
and  pressed  her  hand  upon  her  brow. 

“  She  has  been  in  some  sad  dream  or  other,  poor 
thing !  ”  said  Kenyon,  sympathizingly  ;  “  and  even 
now,  she  is  imprisoned  there  in  a  kind  of  cage,  the 
iron  bars  of  which  are  made  of  her  own  thoughts.” 

“I  fear  she  is  not  well,”  said  Hilda.  “  I  am  going 
down  the  stairs,  and  will  join  Miriam.” 

“Farewell,  then,”  said  the  sculptor.  “Dear  Hilda, 
this  is  a  perplexed  and  troubled  world  !  It  soothes  me 
inexpressibly  to  think  of  you  in  your  tower,  with  white 
doves  and  white  thoughts  for  your  companions,  so  high 
above  us  all,  and  with  the  Virgin  for  your  household 
friend.  You  know  not  how  far  it  throws  its  light,  that 
lamp  which  you  keep  burning  at  her  shrine  !  I  passed 
beneath  the  tower  last  night,  and  the  ray  cheered  me, 
—  because  you  lighted  it.” 


A  STROLL  ON  THE  PIN  Cl  AN.  137 

“  It  has  for  me  a  religious  significance,”  replied 
Hilda,  quietly,  “  and  yet  I  am  no  Catholic.” 

They  parted,  and  Kenyon  made  haste  along  the  Yia 
Sistina,  in  the  hope  of  overtaking  the  model,  whose 
haunts  and  character  he  was  anxious  to  investigate, 
for  Miriam’s  sake.  He  fancied  that  he  saw  him  a 
long  way  in  advance,  but  before  he  reached  the  Foun¬ 
tain  of  the  Triton,  the  dusky  figure  had  vanished,, 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


a  sculptor’s  studio. 

About  this  period,  Miriam  seems  to  have  been 
goaded  by  a  weary  restlessness  that  drove  her  abroad 
on  any  errand  or  none.  She  went  one  morning  to 
visit  Kenyon  in  his  studio,  whither  he  had  invited  her 
to  see  a  new  statue,  on  which  he  had  staked  many 
hopes,  and  which  was  now  almost  completed  in  the 
clay.  Next  to  Hilda,  the  person  for  whom  Miriam 
felt  most  affection  and  confidence  was  Kenyon  ;  and 
in  all  the  difficulties  that  beset  her  life,  it  was  her 
impulse  to  draw  near  Hilda  for  feminine  sympathy, 
and  the  sculptor  for  brotherly  counsel. 

Yet  it  was  to  little  purpose  that  she  approached  the 
edge  of  the  voiceless  gulf  between  herself  and  them. 
Standing  on  the  utmost  verge  of  that  dark  chasm,  she 
might  stretch  out  her  hand,  and  never  clasp  a  hand  of 
theirs ;  she  might  strive  to  call  out,  “  Help,  friends  ! 
help  !  ”  but,  as  with  dreamers  when  they  shout,  her 
voice  would  perish  inaudibly  in  the  remoteness  that 
seemed  such  a  little  way.  This  perception  of  an  in¬ 
finite,  shivering  solitude,  amid  which  we  cannot  come 
close  enough  to  human  beings  to  be  warmed  by  them, 
and  where  they  turn  to  cold,  chilly  shapes  of  mist,  is 
one  of  the  most  forlorn  results  of  any  accident,  misfor¬ 
tune,  crime,  or  peculiarity  of  character,  that  puts  an 
individual  ajar  with  the  world.  Very  often,  as  in 
Miriam’s  case,  there  is  an  insatiable  instinct  that  de- 


A  SCULPTOR'S  STUDIO . 


139 


mands  friendship,  love,  and  intimate  communion,  but 
is  forced  to  pine  in  empty  forms  ;  a  hunger  of  the 
heart,  which  finds  only  shadows  to  feed  upon. 

Kenyon’s  studio  was  in  a  cross-street,  or,  rather,  an 
ugly  and  dirty  little  lane,  between  the  Corso  and  the 
Via  della  Ripetta ;  and  though  chill,  narrow,  gloomy, 
and  bordered  with  tall  and  shabby  structures,  the  lane 
was  not  a  whit  more  disagreeable  than  nine  tenths 
of  the  Roman  streets.  Over  the  door  of  one  of  the 
houses  was  a  marble  tablet,  bearing  an  inscription,  to 
the  purport  that  the  sculpture-rooms  within  had  for¬ 
merly  been  occupied  by  the  illustrious  artist  Canova. 
In  these  precincts  (which  Canova’s  genius  was  not 
quite  of  a  character  to  render  sacred,  though  it  cer¬ 
tainly  made  them  interesting)  the  young  American 
sculptor  had  now  established  himself. 

The  studio  of  a  sculptor  is  generally  but  a  rough 
and  dreary-looking  place,  with  a  good  deal  the  aspect, 
indeed,  of  a  stone-mason’s  workshop.  Bare  floors  of 
brick  or  plank,  and  plastered  walls ;  an  old  chair  or 
two,  or  perhaps  only  a  block  of  marble  (containing, 
however,  the  possibility  of  ideal  grace  within  it)  to  sit 
down  upon ;  some  hastily  scrawled  sketches  of  nude 
figures  on  the  whitewash  of  the  wall.  These  last  are 
probably  the  sculptor’s  earliest  glimpses  of  ideas  that 
may  hereafter  be  solidified  into  imperishable  stone,  or 
perhaps  may  remain  as  impalpable  as  a  dream.  Next 
there  are  a  few  very  roughly  modelled  little  figures 
in  clay  or  plaster,  exhibiting  the  second  stage  of  the 
idea  as  it  advances  towards  a  marble  immortality;  and 
then  is  seen  the  exquisitely  designed  shape  of  clay, 
more  interesting  than  even  the  final  marble,  as  be¬ 
ing  the  intimate  production  of  the  sculptor  himself, 
moulded  throughout  with  his  loving  hands,  and  near- 


140 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


est  to  his  imagination  and  heart.  In  the  plaster-cast, 
from  this  clay  model,  the  beauty  of  the  statue  strangely 
disappears,  to  shine  forth  again  with  pure  white  radi¬ 
ance,  in  the  precious  marble  of  Carrara.  Works  in 
all  these  stages  of  advancement,  and  some  with  the 
final  touch  upon  them,  might  be  found  in  Kenyon’s 
studio. 

Here  might  be  witnessed  the  process  of  actually 
chiselling  the  marble,  with  which  (as  it  is  not  quite 
satisfactory  to  think)  a  sculptor  in  these  days  has  very 
little  to  do.  In  Italy,  there  is  a  class  of  men  whose 
merely  mechanical  skill  is  perhaps  more  exquisite  than 
was  possessed  by  the  ancient  artificers,  who  wrought 
out  the  designs  of  Praxiteles  ;  or,  very  possibly,  by 
Praxiteles  himself.  Whatever  of  illusive  representa¬ 
tion  can  be  effected  in  marble,  they  are  capable  of 
achieving,  if  the  object  be  before  their  eyes.  The 
sculptor  has  but  to  present  these  men  with  a  plaster- 
cast  of  his  design,  and  a  sufficient  block  of  marble, 
and  tell  them  that  the  figure  is  imbedded  in  the  stone, 
and  must  be  freed  from  its  encumbering  superfluities  ; 
and,  in  due  time,  without  the  necessity  of  his  touching 
the  work  with  his  own  finger,  he  will  see  before  him 
the  statue  that  is  to  make  him  renowned.  His  creative 
power  has  wrought  it  with  a  word. 

In  no  other  art,  surely,  does  genius  find  such  effec¬ 
tive  instruments,  and  so  happily  relieve  itself  of  the 
drudgery  of  actual  performance  ;  doing  wonderfully 
nice  things  by  the  hands  of  other  people,  when  it  may 
be  suspected  they  could  not  always  be  done  by  the 
sculptor’s  own.  And  how  much  of  the  admiration 
which  our  artists  get  for  their  buttons  and  button¬ 
holes,  their  shoe-ties,  their  neck-cloths,  —  and  these,  at 
our  present  epoch  of  taste,  make  a  large  share  of  the 


A  SCULPTOR’S  STUDIO. 


141 


renown,  —  would  be  abated,  if  we  were  generally 
aware  that  the  sculptor  can  claim  no  credit  for  such 
pretty  performances,  as  immortalized  in  marble  !  They 
are  not  his  work,  but  that  of  some  nameless  machine 
in  human  shape. 

Miriam  stopped  an  instant  in  an  antechamber,  to 
look  at  a  half-finished  bust,  the  features  of  which 
seemed  to  be  struggling  out  of  the  stone  ;  and,  as  it 
were,  scattering  and  dissolving  its  hard  substance  by 
the  glow  of  feeling  and  intelligence.  As  the  skilful 
workman  save  stroke  after  stroke  of  the  chisel  with 
apparent  carelessness,  but  sure  effect,  it  was  impos¬ 
sible  not  to  think  that  the  outer  marble  was  merely 
an  extraneous  environment ;  the  human  countenance 
within  its  embrace  must  have  existed  there  since  the 
limestone  ledges  of  Carrara  were  first  made.  Another 
bust  was  nearly  completed,  though  still  one  of  Ken¬ 
yon’s  most  trustworthy  assistants  was  at  work,  giving 
delicate  touches,  shaving  off  an  impalpable  something, 
and  leaving  little  heaps  of  marble-dust  to  attest  it. 

“  As  these  busts  in  the  block  of  marble,”  thought 
Miriam,  “  so  does  our  individual  fate  exist  in  the  lime¬ 
stone  of  time.  We  fancy  that  we  carve  it  out;  but 
its  ultimate  shape  is  prior  to  all  our  action.” 

Kenyon  was  in  the  inner  room,  but,  hearing  a  step 
in  the  antechamber,  he  threw  a  veil  over  what  he  wras 
at  work  upon,  and  came  out  to  receive  his  visitor.  He 
was  dressed  in  a  gray  blouse,  with  a  little  cap  on  the 
top  of  his  head  ;  a  costume  which  became  him  better 
than  the  formal  garments  which  he  wore,  whenever  he 
passed  out  of  his  own  domains.  The  sculptor  had  a 
face  which,  when  time  had  done  a  little  more  for  it, 
would  offer  a  worthy  subject  for  as  good  an  artist  as 
himself :  features  finely  cut,  as  if  already  marble  :  an 


142 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


ideal  forehead,  deeply  set  eyes,  and  a  mouth  much 
hidden  in  a  light-brown  beard,  but  apparently  sensi¬ 
tive  and  delicate. 

“  I  will  not  offer  you  my  hand,”  said  he  ;  “  it  is 
grimy  with  Cleopatra  s  clay.” 

u  No  ;  I  will  not  touch  clay  ;  it  is  earthy  and  hu¬ 
man,”  answered  Miriam.  “  I  have  come  to  try  whether 
there  is  any  calm  and  coolness  among  your  marbles. 
My  own  art  is  too  nervous,  too  passionate,  too  full  of 
agitation,  for  me  to  work  at  it  whole  days  together, 
without  intervals  of  repose.  So,  what  have  you  to 
show  me  ?  ” 

“  Pray  look  at  everything  here,”  said  Kenyon.  “  I 
love  to  have  painters  see  my  work.  Their  judgment 
is  unprejudiced,  and  more  valuable  than  that  of  the 
world  generally,  from  the  light  which  their  own  art 
throws  on  mine.  More  valuable,  too,  than  that  of  my 
brother  sculptors,  who  never  judge  me  fairly,  —  nor  I 
them,  perhaps.” 

To  gratify  him,  Miriam  looked  round  at  the  speci¬ 
mens  in  marble  or  plaster,  of  which  there  were  several 
in  the  room,  comprising  originals  or  casts  of  most  of 
the  designs  that  Kenyon  had  thus  far  produced.  He 
was  still  too  young  to  have  accumulated  a  large  gal¬ 
lery  of  such  things.  What  he  had  to  show  were 
chiefly  the  attempts  and  experiments,  in  various  di¬ 
rections,  of  a  beginner  in  art,  acting  as  a  stern  tutor 
to  himself,  and  profiting  more  by  his  failures  than  by 
any  successes  of  which  he  was  yet  capable.  Some  of 
them,  however,  had  great  merit ;  and  in  the  pure,  fine 
glow  of  the  new  marble,  it  may  be,  they  dazzled  the 
judgment  into  awarding  them  higher  praise  than  they 
deserved.  Miriam  admired  the  statue  of  a  beautiful 
youth,  a  pearl-fisher,  who  had  got  entangled  in  the 


A  SCULPTOR'S  STUDIO. 


143 


weeds  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  and  lay  dead  among 
the  pearl-oysters,  the  rich  shells,  and  the  sea-weeds, 
all  of  like  value  to  him  now. 

“  The  poor  young  man  has  perished  among  the 
prizes  that  he  sought,”  remarked  she.  w  But  what  a 
strange  efficacy  there  is  in  death !  If  we  cannot  all 
win  pearls,  it  causes  an  empty  shell  to  satisfy  us  just 
as  well.  I  like  this  statue,  though  it  is  too  cold  and 
stern  in  its  moral  lesson  ;  and,  physically,  the  form 
has  not  settled  itself  into  sufficient  repose.” 

In  another  style,  there  was  a  grand,  calm  head  of 
Milton,  not  copied  from  any  one  bust  or  picture,  yet 
more  authentic  than  any  of  them,  because  all  known 
representations  of  the  poet  had  been  profoundly  stud¬ 
ied,  and  solved  in  the  artist’s  mind.  The  bust  over 
the  tomb  in  Grey  Friars  Church,  the  original  minia¬ 
tures  and  pictures,  wherever  to  be  found,  had  mingled 
each  its  special  truth  in  this  one  work  ;  wherein,  like¬ 
wise,  by  long  perusal  and  deep  love  of  the  “  Paradise 
Lost,”  the  “Comus,”  the  “Lycidas,”  and  UL’ Allegro,” 
the  sculptor  had  succeeded,  even  better  than  he  knew, 
in  spiritualizing  his  marble  with  the  poet’s  mighty 
genius.  And  this  was  a  great  thing  to  have  achieved, 
such  a  length  of  time  after  the  dry  bones  and  dust  of 
Milton  were  like  those  of  any  other  dead  man. 

There  were  also  several  portrait-busts,  comprising 
those  of  two  or  three  of  the  illustrious  men  of  our 
own  country,  whom  Kenyon,  before  he  left  America, 
had  asked  permission  to  model.  He  had  done  so,  be¬ 
cause  he  sincerely  believed  that,  whether  he  wrought 
the  busts  in  marble  or  bronze,  the  one  would  corrode 
and  the  other  crumble  in  the  long  lapse  of  time,  be¬ 
neath  these  great  men’s  immortality.  Possibly,  how¬ 
ever,  the  young  artist  may  have  under-estimated  the 


144 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


durability  of  his  material.  Other  faces  there  were, 
too,  of  men  who  (if  the  brevity  of  their  remembrance, 
after  death,  can  be  augured  from  their  little  value  in 
life)  should  have  been  represented  in  snow  rather 
than  marble.  Posterity  will  be  puzzled  what  to  do 
with  busts  like  these,  the  concretions  and  petrifactions 
of  a  vain  self-estimate  ;  but  will  find,  no  doubt,  that 
they  serve  to  build  into  stone-walls,  or  burn  into  quick¬ 
lime,  as  well  as  if  the  marble  had  never  been  blocked 
into  the  guise  of  human  heads. 

But  it  is  an  awful  thing,  indeed,  this  endless  endur¬ 
ance,  this  almost  indestructibility,  of  a  marble  bust ! 
Whether  in  our  own  case,  or  that  of  other  men,  it 
bids  us  sadly  measure  the  little,  little  time  during 
which  our  lineaments  are  likely  to  be  of  interest 
to  any  human  being.  It  is  especially  singular  that 
Americans  should  care  about  perpetuating  themselves 
in  this  mode.  The  brief  duration  of  our  families, 
as  a  hereditary  household,  renders  it  next  to  a  cer¬ 
tainty  that  the  great-grandchildren  will  not  know  their 
father’s  grandfather,  and  that  half  a  century  hence  at 
furthest,  the  hammer  of  the  auctioneer  will  thump  its 
knock-down  blow  against  his  blockhead,  sold  at  so 
much  for  the  pound  of  stone !  And  it  ought  to  make 
us  shiver,  the  idea  of  leaving  our  features  to  be  a 
dusty-white  ghost  among  strangers  of  another  genera¬ 
tion,  who  will  take  our  nose  between  their  thumb  and 
fingers  (as  we  have  seen  men  do  by  Caesar’s),  and  in¬ 
fallibly  break  it  off  if  they  can  do  so  without  detec¬ 
tion  ! 

“  Yes,”  said  Miriam,  who  had  been  revolving  some 
such  thoughts  as  the  above,  “  it  is  a  good  state  of  mind 
for  mortal  man,  when  he  is  content  to  leave  no  more 
definite  memorial  than  the  grass,  which  will  sprout 


A  SCULPTOR'S  STUDIO. 


145 


kindly  and  speedily  over  his  grave,  if  we  do  not  make 
the  spot  barren  with  marble.  Methinks,  too,  it  will 
be  a  fresher  and  better  world,  when  it  flings  off  this 
great  burden  of  stony  memories,  which  the  ages  have 
deemed  it  a  piety  to  heap  upon  its  back.” 

“  What  you  say,”  remarked  Kenyon,  “  goes  against 
my  whole  art.  Sculpture,  and  the  delight  which  men 
naturally  take  in  it,  appear  to  me  a  proof  that  it  is 
good  to  work  with  all  time  before  our  view.” 

“Well,  well,”  answered  Miriam,  “I  must  not  quar¬ 
rel  with  you  for  flinging  your  heavy  stones  at  poor 
Posterity ;  and,  to  say  the  truth,  I  think  you  are  as 
likely  to  hit  the  mark  as  anybody.  These  busts,  now. 
much  as  I  seem  to  scorn  them,  make  me  feel  as  if  you 
were  a  magician.  You  turn  feverish  men  into  cool, 
quiet  marble.  What  a  blessed  change  for  them ! 
Would  you  could  do  as  much  for  me  !  ” 

“  Oh,  gladly !  ”  cried  Kenyon,  who  had  long  wished 
to  model  that  beautiful  and  most  expressive  face. 
“  When  will  you  begin  to  sit  ?  ” 

“  Poll !  that  was  not  what  I  meant,”  said  Miriam. 
“  Come,  show  me  something  else.” 

“  Do  you  recognize  this  ?  ”  asked  the  sculptor. 

He  took  out  of  his  desk  a  little  old-fashioned  ivory 
coffer,  yellow  with  age  ;  it  was  richly  carved  with  an¬ 
tique  figures  and  foliage  ;  and  had  Kenyon  thought 
fit  to  say  that  Benvenuto  Cellini  wrought  this  precious 
box,  the  skill  and  elaborate  fancy  of  the  work  would 
by  no  means  have  discredited  his  word,  nor  the  old 
artist’s  fame.  At  least,  it  was  evidently  a  production 
of  Benvenuto’s  school  and  century,  and  might  once 
have  been  the  jewel-case  of  some  grand  lady  at  the 
court  of  the  De’  Medici. 

Lifting  the  lid,  however,  ro  blaze  of  diamonds  was 

VOI..  VI. 


146 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BEN/. 


disclosed,  but  only,  lapped  in  fleecy  cotton,  a  small, 
beautifully  shaped  band,  most  delicately  sculptured  in 
marble.  Such  loving  care  and  nicest  art  bad  been 
lavished  here,  that  the  palm  really  seemed  to  have  a 
tenderness  in  its  very  substance.  Touching  those 
lovely  fingers,  —  had  the  jealous  sculptor  allowed  you 
to  touch,  —  you  could  hardly  believe  that  a  virgin 
warmth  would  not  steal  from  them  into  your  heart. 

“  Ah,  this  is  very  beautiful !  ”  exclaimed  Miriam, 
with  a  genial  smile.  “  It  is  as  good  in  its  way  as  Lou- 
lie’s  hand  with  its  baby-dimples,  which  Powers  showed 
me  at  Florence,  evidently  valuing  it  as  much  as  if  he 
had  wrought  it  out  of  a  piece  of  his  great  heart.  As 
good  as  Harriet  Hosmer’s  clasped  hands  of  Browning 
and  his  wife,  symbolizing  the  individuality  and  heroic 
union  of  two  high,  poetic  lives !  Nay,  I  do  not  ques¬ 
tion  that  it  is  better  than  either  of  those,  because  you 
must  have  wrought  it  passionately,  in  spite  of  its 
maiden  palm  and  dainty  finger-tips.” 

“  Then  you  do  recognize  it?”  asked  Kenyon. 

w  There  is  but  one  right  hand  on  earth  that  could 
have  supplied  the  model,”  answered  Miriam ;  “  so 
small  and  slender,  so  perfectly  symmetrical,  and  yet 
with  a  character  of  delicate  energy.  I  have  watched 
it  a  hundred  times  at  its  work ;  but  I  did  not  dream 
that  you  had  won  Hilda  so  far  !  How  have  you  per¬ 
suaded  that  shy  maiden  to  let  you  take  her  hand  in 
marble  ?  ” 

u  Never !  She  never  knew  it !  ”  hastily  replied 
Kenyon,  anxious  to  vindicate  his  mistress’s  maidenly 
reserve.  “  I  stole  it  from  her.  The  hand  is  a  remi¬ 
niscence.  After  gazing  at  it  so  often,  and  even  hold¬ 
ing  it  once  for  an  instant,  when  Hilda  was  not  think¬ 
ing  of  me,  I  should  be  a  bungler  indeed,  if  I  could  not 
now  reproduce  it  to  something  like  the  life.” 


A  SCULPTOR'S  STUDIO. 


147 


«  May  you  win  tlie  original  one  day  !  ”  said  Miriam, 
kindly. 

“I  have  little  ground  to  hope  it,”  answered  the 
sculptor,  despond ingly  ;  “  Hilda  does  not  dwell  in  our 
mortal  atmosphere;  and  gentle  and  soft  as  she  ap¬ 
pears,  it  will  be  as  difficult  to  win  her  heart  as  to  en¬ 
tice  down  a  white  bird  from  its  sunny  freedom  in  the 
sky.  It  is  strange,  with  all  her  delicacy  and  fragility, 
the  impression  she  makes  of  being  utterly  sufficient  to 
herself.  No  ;  I  shall  never  win  her.  She  is  abun¬ 
dantly  capable  of  sympathy,  and  delights  to  receive  it, 
but  she  has  no  need  of  love.” 

“  I  partly  agree  with  you,”  said  Miriam.  “  It  is  a 
mistaken  idea,  which  men  generally  entertain,  that  na¬ 
ture  has  made  women  especially  prone  to  throw  their 
whole  being  into  what  is  technically  called  love.  We 
have,  to  say  the  least,  no  more  necessity  for  it  than 
yourselves ;  only  we  have  nothing  else  to  do  with  our 
hearts.  When  women  have  other  objects  in  life,  they 
are  not  apt  to  fall  in  love.  I  can  think  of  many 
women  distinguished  in  art,  literature,  and  science,  — 
and  multitudes  whose  hearts  and  minds  find  good  em¬ 
ployment  in  less  ostentatious  ways,  —  who  lead  high, 
lonely  lives,  and  are  conscious  of  no  sacrifice  so  far  as 
your  sex  is  concerned.” 

“  And  Hilda  will  be  one  of  these !  ”  said  Kenyon, 
sadly  ;  “  the  thought  makes  me  shiver  for  myself,  and 
—  and  for  her,  too.” 

“Well,”  said  Miriam,  smiling,  “perhaps  she  may 
sprain  the  delicate  wrist  which  you  have  sculptured  to 
such  perfection.  In  that  case  you  may  hope.  These 
old  masters  to  whom  she  has  vowed  herself,  and  whom 
her  slender  hand  and  woman’s  heart  serve  so  faith¬ 
fully,  are  your  only  rivals.” 


148  ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


The  sculptor  sighed  as  he  put  away  the  treasure  of 
Hilda’s  marble  hand  into  the  ivory  coffer,  and  thought 
how  slight  was  the  possibility  that  he  should  ever  feel 
responsive  to  his  own  the  tender  clasp  of  the  original. 
He  dared  not  even  kiss  the  image  that  he  himself  had 
made :  it  had  assumed  its  share  of  Hilda’s  remote  and 
shy  divinity. 

u  And  now,”  said  Miriam,  “  show  me  the  new  statue 
which  you  asked  me  hither  to  see.” 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


CLEOPATRA. 

“  My  new  statue !  ”  said  Kenyon,  who  had  positively 
forgotten  it  in  the  thought  of  Hilda ;  “  here  it  is,  un¬ 
der  this  veil.” 

“  Not  a  nude  figure,  I  hope,”  observed  Miriam. 
“  Every  young  sculptor  seems  to  think  that  he  must 
give  the  world  some  specimen  of  indecorous  woman¬ 
hood,  and  call  it  Eve,  Venus,  a  Nymph,  or  any  name 
that  may  apologize  for  a  lack  of  decent  clothing.  I 
am  weary,  even  more  than  I  am  ashamed,  of  seeing 
such  things.  Nowadays  people  are  as  good  as  born  in 
their  clothes,  and  there  is  practically  not  a  nude  hu¬ 
man  being  in  existence.  An  artist,  therefore,  as  you 
must  candidly  confess,  cannot  sculpture  nudity  with  a 
pure  heart,  if  only  because  he  is  compelled  to  steal 
guilty  glimpses  at  hired  models.  The  marble  inevita¬ 
bly  loses  its  chastity  under  such  circumstances.  An 
old  Greek  sculptor,  no  doubt,  found  his  models  in  the 
open  sunshine,  and  among  pure  and  princely  maidens, 
and  thus  the  nude  statues  of  antiquity  are  as  modest 
as  violets,  and  sufficiently  draped  in  their  own  beauty. 
But  as  for  Mr.  Gibson’s  colored  Venuses  (stained,  I 
believe,  with  tobacco-juice),  and  all  other  nudities  of 
to-day,  I  really  do  not  understand  what  they  have  to 
say  to  this  generation,  and  would  be  glad  to  see  as 
many  heaps  of  quicklime  in  their  stead.” 

aYou  are  severe  upon  the  professors  of  my  art,” 


150 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


said  Kenyon,  half  smiling,  half  seriously ;  44  not  that 
you  are  wholly  wrong,  either.  We  are  bound  to  ac¬ 
cept  drapery  of  some  kind,  and  make  the  best  of  it. 
But  what  are  we  to  do  ?  Must  we  adopt  the  costume 
of  to-day,  and  carve,  for  example,  a  Venus  in  a  ho#op- 
petticoat  ?  ” 

44  That  would  be  a  bowlder,  indeed  !  ”  rejoined  Mir- 
iam,  laughing.  44  But  the  difficulty  goes  to  confirm 
me  in  my  belief  that,  except  for  portrait-busts,  sculp¬ 
ture  has  no  longer  a  right  to  claim  any  place  among 
living  arts.  It  has  wrought  itself  out,  and  come  fairly 
to  an  end.  There  is  never  a  new  group  nowadays  ; 
never  even  so  much  as  a  new  attitude.  Greenough 
(I  take  my  examples  among  men  of  merit)  imagined 
nothing  new  ;  nor  Crawford  either,  except  in  the  tai¬ 
loring  line.  There  are  not,  as  you  will  own,  more  than 
half  a  dozen  positively  original  statues  or  groups  in 
the  world,  and  these  few  are  of  immemorial  antiquity. 
A  person  familiar  with  the  Vatican,  the  Uffizzi  Gal¬ 
lery,  the  Naples  Gallery,  and  the  Louvre,  will  at  once 
refer  any  modern  production  to  its  antique  prototype  ; 
which,  moreover,  had  begun  to  get  out  of  fashion,  even 
in  old  Roman  days.” 

44  Pray  stop,  Miriam,”  cried  Kenyon,  44  or  I  shall 
fling  away  the  chisel  forever  !  ” 

44  Fairly  own  to  me,  then,  my  friend,”  rejoined  Mir¬ 
iam,  whose  disturbed  mind  found  a  certain  relief  in 
this  declamation,  44  that  you  sculptors  are,  of  necessity, 
the  greatest  plagiarists  in  the  world.” 

44 1  do  not  own  it,”  said  Kenyon,  44  yet  cannot  utterly 
contradict  you,  as  regards  the  actual  state  of  the  art. 
But  as  long  as  the  Carrara  quarries  still  yield  pure 
blocks,  and  while  my  own  country  has  marble  mourn 
tains,  probably  as  fine  in  quality,  I  shall  steadfastly 


CLEOPATRA. 


151 


believe  that  future  sculptors  will  revive  this  noblest 
of  the  beautiful  arts,  and  people  the  world  with  new 
shapes  of  delicate  grace  and  massive  grandeur.  Per¬ 
haps,”  he  added,  smiling,  44  mankind  will  consent  to 
wear  a  more  manageable  costume  ;  or,  at  worst,  we 
sculptors  shall  get  the  skill  to  make  broadcloth  trans¬ 
parent,  and  render  a  majestic  human  character  visible 
through  the  coats  and  trousers  of  the  present  day.” 

44  Be  it  so  !  ”  said  Miriam  ;  44  you  are  past  my  couu 
sel.  Show  me  the  veiled  figure,  which  I  am  afraid,  I 
have  criticised  beforehand.  To  make  amends,  I  am 
in  the  mood  to  praise  it  now.” 

But,  as  Kenyon  was  about  to  take  the  cloth  off  the 
clay  model,  she  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

44  Tell  me  first  what  is  the  subject,”  said  she,  44  for  I 
have  sometimes  incurred  great  displeasure  from  mem¬ 
bers  of  your  brotherhood  by  being  too  obtuse  to  puzzle 
out  the  purport  of  their  productions.  It  is  so  difficult, 
you  know,  to  compress  and  define  a  character  or  story, 
and  make  it  patent  at  a  glance,  within  the  narrow 
scope  attainable  by  sculpture  !  Indeed  I  fancy  it  is 
still  the  ordinary  habit  with  sculptors,  first  to  finish 
their  group  of  statuary,  —  in  such  development  as  the 
particular  block  of  marble  will  allow,  —  and  then  to 
choose  the  subject ;  as  John  of  Bologna  did  with  his 
4  Rape  of  the  Sabines.’  Have  you  followed  that  good 
example  ?  ” 

44  No ;  my  statue  is  intended  for  Cleopatra,”  replied 
Kenyon,  a  little  disturbed  by  Miriam’s  raillery.  44  The 
special  epoch  of  her  history  you  must  make  out  for 
yourself.” 

He  drew  away  the  cloth  that  had  served  to  keep  the 
moisture  of  the  clay  model  from  being  exhaled.  The 
sitting  figure  of  a  woman  was  seen.  She  was  draped 


152 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


from  head  to  foot  in  a  costume  minutely  and  scrupu¬ 
lously  studied  from  that  of  ancient  Egypt,  as  revealed 
by  the  strange  sculpture  of  that  country,  its  coins,  draw¬ 
ings,  painted  mummy-cases,  and  whatever  other  tokens 
have  been  dug  out  of  its  pyramids,  graves,  and  cata¬ 
combs.  Even  the  stiff  Egyptian  head-dress  was  ad¬ 
hered  to,  but  had  been  softened  into  a  rich  feminine 
adornment,  without  losing  a  particle  of  its  truth.  Dif¬ 
ficulties  that  might  well  have  seemed  insurmountable 
had  been  courageously  encountered  and  made  flexible 
to  purposes  of  grace  and  dignity  ;  so  that  Cleopatra 
sat  attired  in  a  garb  proper  to  her  historic  and  queenly 
state,  as  a  daughter  of  the  Ptolemies,  and  yet  such 
as  the  beautiful  woman  would  have  put  on  as  best 
adapted  to  heighten  the  magnificence  of  her  charms, 
and  kindle  a  tropic  fire  in  the  cold  eyes  of  Octavius. 

A  marvellous  repose  —  that  rare  merit  in  statuary, 
except  it  be  the  lumpish  repose  native  to  the  block 
of  stone  —  was  diffused  throughout  the  figure.  The 
spectator  felt  that  Cleopatra  had  sunk  down  out  of 
the  fever  and  turmoil  of  her  life,  and  for  one  instant 
—  as  it  were,  between  two  pulse-throbs  —  had  relin¬ 
quished  all  activity,  and  was  resting  throughout  every 
vein  and  muscle.  It  was  the  repose  of  despair,  indeed ; 
for  Octavius  had  seen  her,  and  remained  insensible  to 
her  enchantments.  But  still  there  was  a  great  smoul¬ 
dering  furnace  deep  down  in  the  woman’s  heart.  The 
repose,  no  doubt,  was  as  complete  as  if  she  were  never 
to  stir  hand  or  foot  again  ;  and  yet,  such  was  the  crea¬ 
ture’s  latent  energy  and  fierceness,  she  might  spring 
upon  you  like  a  tigress,  and  stop  the  very  breath  that 
you  were  now  drawing  midway  in  your  throat. 

The  face  was  a  miraculous  success.  The  sculptor 
had  not  shunned  to  give  the  full  Nubian  lips,  and  other 


CLEOPA ERA. 


153 


characteristics  of  the  Egyptian  physiognomy.  His 
courage  and  integrity  had  been  abundantly  rewarded  ; 
for  Cleopatra’s  beauty  shone  out  richer,  warmer,  more 
triumphantly  beyond  comparison,  than  if,  shrinking 
timidly  from  the  truth,  he  had  chosen  the  tame  Gre¬ 
cian  type.  The  expression  was  of  profound,  gloomy, 
heavily  revolving  thought ;  a  glance  into  her  past  life 
and  present  emergencies,  while  her  spirit  gathered  it¬ 
self  up  for  some  new  struggle,  or  was  getting  sternly 
reconciled  to  impending  doom.  In  one  view,  there 
was  a  certain  softness  and  tenderness,  —  how  breathed 
into  the  statue,  among  so  many  strong  and  passionate 
elements,  it  is  impossible  to  say.  Catching  another 
glimpse,  you  beheld  her  as  implacable  as  a  stone  and 
cruel  as  fire. 

In  a  word,  all  Cleopatra  —  fierce,  voluptuous,  pas¬ 
sionate,  tender,  wicked,  terrible,  and  full  of  poisonous 
and  rapturous  enchantment  —  was  kneaded  into  what, 
only  a  week  or  two  before,  had  been  a  lump  of  wet 
clay  from  the  Tiber.  Soon,  apotheosized  in  an  inde¬ 
structible  material,  she  would  be  one  of  the  images 
that  men  keep  forever,  finding  a  heat  in  them  which 
does  not  cool  down,  throughout  the  centuries. 

“  What  a  woman  is  this !  ”  exclaimed  Miriam,  after 
a  long  pause.  “  Tell  me,  did  she  ever  try,  even  while 
you  were  creating  her,  to  overcome  you  with  her  fury 
or  her  love  ?  Were  you  not  afraid  to  touch  her,  as 
she  grew  more  and  more  towards  hot  life  beneath  your 
hand?  My  dear  friend,  it  is  a  great  work!  How 
have  you  learned  to  do  it  ?  ” 

u  It  is  the  concretion  of  a  good  deal  of  thought, 
emotion,  and  toil  of  brain  and  hand,”  said  Kenyon, 
not  without  a  perception  that  his  work  was  good ; 
16  but  I  know  not  how  it  came  about  at  last.  I  kin- 


154 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


died  a  great  fire  within  my  mind,  and  threw  in  the 
material,  —  as  Aaron  threw  the  gold  of  the  Israelites 
into  the  furnace,  —  and  in  the  midmost  heat  uprose 
Cleopatra,  as  you  see  her.” 

“  What  I  most  marvel  at,”  said  Miriam,  “  is  the 
womanhood  that  you  have  so  thoroughly  mixed  up 
with  all  those  seemingly  discordant  elements.  Where 
did  you  get  that  secret  ?  You  never  found  it  in  your 
gentle  Hilda,  yet  I  recognize  its  truth.” 

“  Nov  surely,  it  was  not  in  Hilda,”  said  Kenyon. 
“  Her  womanhood  is  of  the  ethereal  type,  and  incom¬ 
patible  with  any  shadow  of  darkness  or  evil.” 

“  You  are  right,”  rejoined  Miriam ;  “  there  are  wo¬ 
men  of  that  ethereal  type  as  you  term  it,  and  Hilda 
is  one  of  them.  She  would  die  of  her  first  wrong¬ 
doing,  —  supposing  for  a  moment  that  she  could  be 
capable  of  doing  wrong.  Of  sorrow,  slender  as  she 
seems,  Hilda  might  bear  a  great  burden ;  of  sin,  not  a 
feather’s  weight.  Methinks  now,  were  it  my  doom,  I 
could  bear  either,  or  both  at  once ;  but  my  conscience 
is  still  as  white  as  Hilda’s.  Do  you  question  it  ?  ” 

“  Heaven  forbid,  Miriam  !  ”  exclaimed  the  sculptor. 

He  was  startled  at  the  strange  turn  which  she  had 
so  suddenly  given  to  the  conversation.  Her  voice,  too, 
■  —  so  much  emotion  was  stifled  rather  than  expressed 
in  it,  —  sounded  unnatural. 

“  Oh,  my  friend,”  cried  she,  with  sudden  passion, 
“  will  you  be  my  friend  indeed  ?  I  am  lonely,  lonely, 
lonely  !  There  is  a  secret  in  my  heart  that  burns  me, 
—  that  tortures  me  !  Sometimes  I  fear  to  go  mad  of 
it ;  sometimes  I  hope  to  die  of  it ;  but  neither  of  the 
two  happens.  Ah,  if  I  could  but  whisper  it  to  only 
one  human  soul !  And  you  —  you  see  far  into  wo. 
manhood  ;  you  receive  it  widely  into  your  large  view ! 


CLEOPATRA.  155 

Perhaps  —  perhaps,  but  Heaven  only  knows,  you  might 
understand  me !  Oh,  let  me  speak  !  ” 

“  Miriam,  dear  friend,”  replied  the  sculptor,  “  if  I 
can  help  you,  speak  freely,  as  to  a  brother.” 

“  Help  me  ?  No  !  ”  said  Miriam. 

Kenyon’s  response  had  been  perfectly  frank  and 
kind;  and  yet  the  subtlety  of  Miriam’s  emotion  de¬ 
tected  a  certain  reserve  and  alarm  in  his  warmly  ex¬ 
pressed  readiness  to  hear  her  story.  In  his  secret 
soul,  to  say  the  truth,  the  sculptor  doubted  whether 
it  were  well  for  this  poor,  suffering  girl  to  speak  what 
she  so  yearned  to  say,  or  for  him  to  listen.  If  there 
were  any  active  duty  of  friendship  to  be  performed, 
then,  indeed,  he  would  joyfully  have  come  forward  to 
do  his  best.  But  if  it  were  only  a  pent-up  heart  that 
sought  an  outlet  ?  in  that  case  it  was  by  no  means  so 
certain  that  a  confession  would  do  good.  The  more 
her  secret  struggled  and  fought  to  be  told,  the  more 
certain  would  it  be  to  change  all  former  relations  that 
had  subsisted  between  herself  and  the  friend  to  whom 
she  might  reveal  it.  Unless  he  could  give  her  all  the 
sympathy,  and  just  the  kind  of  sympathy  that  the  oc¬ 
casion  required,  Miriam  would  hate  him  by  and  by, 
and  herself  still  more,  if  he  let  her  speak. 

This  was  what  Kenyon  said  to  himself  ;  but  his  re¬ 
luctance,  after  all,  and  whether  he  were  conscious  of 
it  or  no,  resulted  from  a  suspicion  that  had  crept  into 
his  heart  and  lay  there  in  a  dark  corner.  Obscure  as 
it  was,  when  Miriam  looked  into  his.  eyes,  she  detected 
it  at  once. 

“  Ah,  I  shall  hate  you !  ”  cried  she,  echoing  the 
thought  which  he  had  not  spoken  ;  she  was  half 
choked  with  the  gush  of  passion  that  was  thus  turned 
back  upon  her.  46  You  are  as  cold  and  pitiless  as 
your  own  marble.” 


156 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


“No;  but  full  of  sympathy,  God  knows  !  ”  replied 
he. 

In  truth  his  suspicions,  however  warranted  by  the 
mystery  in  which  Miriam  was  enveloped,  had  vanished 
in  the  earnestness  of  his  kindly  and  sorrowful  emotion0 
He  was  now  ready  to  receive  her  trust. 

“  Keep  your  sympathy,  then,  for  sorrows  that  admit 
of  such  solace,’’  said  she,  making  a  strong  effort  to 
compose  herself.  “  As  for  my  griefs,  I  know  how  to 
manage  them.  It  was  all  a  mistake  :  you  can  do  noth¬ 
ing  for  me,  unless  you  petrify  me  into  a  marble  com¬ 
panion  for  your  Cleopatra  there ;  and  I  am  not  of  her 
sisterhood,  I  do  assure  you.  Forget  this  foolish  scene, 
my  friend,  and  never  let  me  see  a  reference  to  it  in 
your  eyes  when  they  meet  mine  hereafter.” 

“  Since  you  desire  it,  all  shall  be  forgotten,”  an¬ 
swered  the  sculptor,  pressing  her  hand  as  she  de¬ 
parted  ;  “  or,  if  ever  I  can  serve  you,  let  my  readiness 
to  do  so  be  remembered.  Meanwhile,  dear  Miriam, 
let  us  meet  in  the  same  clear,  friendly  light  as  hereto¬ 
fore.” 

“You  are  less  sincere  than  I  thought  you,”  said 
Miriam,  “  if  you  try  to  make  me  think  that  there  will 
be  no  change.” 

As  he  attended  her  through  the  antechamber,  she 
pointed  to  the  statue  of  the  pearl-diver. 

“My  secret  is  not  a  pearl,”  said  she;  “yet  a  man 
might  drown  himself  in  plunging  after  it.” 

After  Kenyon  had  closed  the  door,  she  went  wearily 
down  the  staircase,  but  paused  midway,  as  if  debating 
with  herself  whether  to  return. 

“  The  mischief  was  done,”  thought  she ;  “  and  I 
might  as  well  have  had  the  solace  that  ought  to 
come  with  it.  I  have  lost,  —  by  staggering  a  little 


CLEOPATRA. 


157 


way  beyond  the  mark,  in  the  blindness  of  my  distress, 
—  I  have  lost,  as  we  shall  hereafter  find,  the  genuine 
friendship  of  this  clear-minded,  honorable,  true-hearted 
young  man,  and  all  for  nothing.  What  if  I  should  go 
back  this  moment  and  compel  him  to  listen  ?  ” 

She  ascended  two  or  three  of  the  stairs,  but  again 
paused,  murmured  to  herself,  and  shook  her  head. 

44  No,  no,  no,”  she  thought ;  44  and  I  wonder  how  1 
ever  came  to  dream  of  it.  Unless  I  had  his  heart  for 
my  own,  —  and  that  is  Hilda’s,  nor  would  I  steal  it 
from  her,  —  it  should  never  be  the  treasure-place  of 
my  secret.  It  is  no  precious  pearl,  as  I  just  now  told 
him ;  but  my  dark-red  carbuncle  —  red  as  blood  —  is 
too  rich  a  gem  to  put  into  a  stranger’s  casket.” 

She  went  down  the  stairs,  and  found  her  Shadow 
waiting  for  her  in  the  street- 


CHAPTER  XV. 


AN  AESTHETIC  COMPANY. 

On  the  evening1  after  Miriam’s  visit  to  Kenyon’s 
studio,  there  was  an  assemblage  composed  almost  en¬ 
tirely  of  Anglo-Saxons,  and  chiefly  of  American  ar¬ 
tists,  with  a  sprinkling  of  their  English  brethren ;  and 
some  few  of  the  tourists  who  still  lingered  in  Rome, 
now  that  Holy  W eek  was  past.  Miriam,  Hilda,  and 
the  sculptor  were  all  three  present,  and,  with  them, 
Donatello,  whose  life  was  so  far  turned  from  its  natu¬ 
ral  bent,  that,  like  a  pet  spaniel,  he  followed  his  be¬ 
loved  mistress  wherever  he  could  gain  admittance. 

The  place  of  '  meeting  was  in  the  palatial,  but  some¬ 
what  faded  and  gloomy  apartment  of  an  eminent  mem¬ 
ber  of  the  aesthetic  body.  It  was  no  more  formal  an 
occasion  than  one  of  those  weekly  receptions,  common 
among  the  foreign  residents  of  Rome,  at  which  pleas¬ 
ant  people  —  or  disagreeable  ones,  as  the  case  may  be 
—  encounter  one  another  with  little  ceremony. 

If  anywise  interested  in  art,  a  man  must  be  difficult 
to  please  who  cannot  find  fit  companionship  among  a 
crowd  of  persons,  whose  ideas  and  pursuits  all  tend 
towards  the  general  purpose  of  enlarging  the  world’s 
stock  of  beautiful  productions. 

One  of  the  chief  causes  that  make  Rome  the  favorite 
residence  of  artists  —  their  ideal  home  which  they  sigh 
for  in  advance,  and  are  so  loath  to  migrate  from,  after 
once  breathing  its  enchanted  air  —  •  is,  doubtless,  that 


AN  AESTHETIC  COMPANY. 


159 


they  there  find  themselves  in  force,  and  are  numerous 
enough  to  create  a  congenial  atmosphere.  In  every 
other  clime  they  are  isolated  strangers ;  in  this  land  of 
art,  they  are  free  citizens. 

Not  that,  individually,  or  in  the  mass,  there  appears 
to  he  any  large  stock  of  mutual  affection  among  the 
brethren  of  the  chisel  and  the  pencil.  On  the  con 
trary,  it  will  impress  the  shrewd  observer  that  the  jeal¬ 
ousies  and  petty  animosities,  which  the  poets  of  our 
day  have  flung  aside,  still  irritate  and  gnaw  into  the 
hearts  of  this  kindred  class  of  imaginative  men.  It  is 
not  difficult  to  suggest  reasons  why  this  should  be  the 
fact.  The  public,  in  whose  good  graces  lie  the  sculp¬ 
tor’s  or  the  painter’s  prospects  of  success,  is  infinitely 
smaller  than  the  public  to  which  literary  men  make 
their  appeal.  It  is  composed  of  a  very  limited  body 
of  wealthy  patrons ;  and  these,  as  the  artist  well 
knows,  are  but  blind  judges  in  matters  that  require 
the  utmost  delicacy  of  perception.  Thus,  success  in 
art  is  apt  to  become  partly  an  affair  of  intrigue  ;  and 
it  is  almost  inevitable  that  even  a  gifted  artist  should 
look  askance  at  his  gifted  brother’s  fame,  and  be  chary 
of  the  good  word  that  might  help  him  to  sell  still 
another  statue  or  picture.  You  seldom  hear  a  painter 
heap  generous  praise  on  anything  in  his  special  line 
of  art ;  a  sculptor  never  has  a  favorable  eye  for  any 
marble  but  his  own. 

Nevertheless,  in  spite  of  all  these  professional 
grudges,  artists  are  conscious  of  a  social  warmth  from 
each  other’s  presence  and  contiguity.  They  shiver  at 
the  remembrance  of  their  lonely  studios  in  the  un  sym¬ 
pathizing  cities  of  their  native  land.  For  the  sake  of 
such  brotherhood  as  they  can  find,  more  than  for  any 
good  that  they  get  from  galleries,  they  linger  year  aff 


160 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


ter  year  in  Italy,  while  their  originality  dies  out  of 
them,  or  is  polished  away  as  a  barbarism. 

The  company  this  evening  included  several  men  and 
women  whom  the  world  has  heard  of,  and  many  others, 
beyond  all  question,  whom  it  ought  to  know.  It  would 
be  a  pleasure  to  introduce  them  upon  our  humble 
pages,  name  by  name,  and  —  had  we  confidence  enough 
in  our  own  taste  —  to  crown  each  well-deserving  brow 
according  to  its  deserts.  The  opportunity  is  tempting, 
but  not  easily  manageable,  and  far  too  perilous,  both 
in  respect  to  those  individuals  whom  we  might  bring 
forward,  and  the  far  greater  number  that  must  needs 
be  left  in  the  shade.  Ink,  moreover,  is  apt  to  have  a 
corrosive  quality,  and  might  chance  to  raise  a  blister, 
instead  of  any  more  agreeable  titillation,  on  skins  so 
sensitive  as  those  of  artists.  We  must  therefore 
forego  the  delight  of  illuminating  this  chapter  with 
personal  allusions  to  men  whose  renown  glows  richly 
on  canvas,  or  gleams  in  the  white  moonlight  of  mar¬ 
ble. 

Otherwise  we  might  point  to  an  artist  who  has  stud¬ 
ied  Nature  with  such  tender  love  that  she  takes  him  to 
her  intimacy,  enabling  him  to  reproduce  her  in  land¬ 
scapes  that  seem  the  reality  of  a  better  earth,  and  yet 
are  but  the  truth  of  the  very  scenes  around  us,  ob¬ 
served  by  the  painter’s  insight  and  interpreted  for  us 
by  his  skill.  By  his  magic,  the  moon  throws  her  light 
far  out  of  the  picture,  and  the  crimson  of  the  summer 
night  absolutely  glimmers  on  the  beholder’s  face.  Or 
we  might  indicate  a  poet-painter,  whose  song  has  the 
vividness  of  picture,  and  whose  canvas  is  peopled  with 
angels,  fairies,  and  water-sprites,  done  to  the  ethereal 
life,  because  he  saw  them  face  to  face  in  his  poetic 
mood.  Or  we  might  bow  before  an  artist,  who  has 


AN  JESTIPETIC  COMPANY. 


161 


wrought  too  sincerely,  too  religiously,  with  too  earnest 
a  feeling,  and  too  delicate  a  touch,  for  the  world  at 
once  to  recognize  how  much  toil  and  thought  are  com¬ 
pressed  into  the  stately  brow  of  Prospero,  and  Miran¬ 
da’s  maiden  loveliness  ;  or  from  what  a  depth  within 
this  painter’s  heart  the  Angel  is  leading  forth  St. 
Peter. 

Thus  it  would  be  easy  to  go  on,  perpetrating  a  score 
of  little  epigrammatical  allusions,  like  the  above,  all 
kindly  meant,  but  none  of  them  quite  hitting  the 
mark,  and  often  striking  where  they  were  not  aimed. 
It  may  be  allowable  to  say,  however,  that  American 
art  is  much  better  represented  at  Rome  in  the  picto¬ 
rial  than  in  the  sculpturesque  department.  Yet  the 
men  of  marble  appear  to  have  more  weight  with  the 
public  than  the  men  of  canvas  ;  perhaps  on  account  of 
the  greater  density  and  solid  substance  of  the  material 
in  which  they  work,  and  the  sort  of  physical  advantage 
which  their  labors  thus  acquire  over  the  illusive  unre¬ 
ality  of  color.  To  be  a  sculptor  seems  a  distinction  in 
itself ;  whereas  a  painter  is  nothing,  unless  individually 
eminent. 

One  sculptor  there  was,  an  Englishman,  endowed 
with  a  beautiful  fancy,  and  possessing  at  his  fingers’ 
ends  the  capability  of  doing  beautiful  things.  He  was 
a  quiet,  simple,  elderly  personage,  with  eyes  brown 
and  bright,  under  a  slightly  impending  brow,  and  a 
Grecian  profile,  such  as  he  might  have  cut  with  his 
own  chisel.  He  had  spent  his  life,  for  forty  years,  in 
making  Yenuses,  Cupids,  Bacchuses,  and  a  vast  deal 
of  other  marble  progeny  of  dream-work,  or  rather  frost¬ 
work  :  it  was  all  a  vapory  exhalation  out  of  the  Grecian 
mythology,  crystallizing  on  the  dull  window-panes  of 
to-day.  Gifted  with  a  more  delicate  power  than  any 

VOL.  VI. 


162 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


other  man  alive,  he  had  foregone  to  he  a  Christian  real¬ 
ity,  and  perverted  himself  into  a  Pagan  idealist,  whose 
business  or  efficacy,  in  our  present  world,  it  would  be 
exceedingly  difficult  to  define.  And,  loving  and  rever¬ 
encing  the  pure  material  in  which  he  wrought,  as  surely 
this  admirable  sculptor  did,  he  had  nevertheless  robbed 
the  marble  of  its  chastity,  by  giving  it  an  artificial 
warmth  of  hue.  Thus  it  became  a  sin  and  shame  to 
look  at  his  nude  goddesses.  They  had  revealed  them¬ 
selves  to  his  imagination,  no  doubt,  with  all  their  deity 
about  them  ;  but,  bedaubed  with  buff-color,  they  stood 
forth  to  the  eyes  of  the  profane  in  the  guise  of  naked 
women.  But,  whatever  criticism  may  be  ventured  on 
his  style,  it  was  good  to  meet  a  man  so  modest  and 
yet  imbued  with  such  thorough  and  simple  conviction 
of  his  own  right  principles  and  practice,  and  so  quietly 
satisfied  that  his  kind  of  antique  achievement  was  all 
that  sculpture  could  effect  for  modern  life. 

This  eminent  person’s  weight  and  authority  among 
his  artistic  brethren  were  very  evident ;  for  beginning 
unobtrusively  to  utter  himself  on  a  topic  of  art,  he 
was  soon  the  centre  of  a  little  crowd  of  younger  sculp¬ 
tors.  They  drank  in  his  wisdom,  as  if  it  would  serve 
all  the  purposes  of  original  inspiration  ;  he,  mean¬ 
while,  discoursing  with  gentle  calmness,  as  if  there 
could  possibly  be  no  other  side,  and  often  ratifying, 
as  it  were,  his  own  conclusions  by  a  mildly  emphatic 
44  Yes.” 

The  veteran  sculptor’s  unsought  audience  was  com¬ 
posed  mostly  of  our  own  countrymen.  It  is  fair  to 
say,  that  they  were  a  body  of  very  dexterous  and 
capable  artists,  each  of  whom  had  probably  given 
the  delighted  public  a  nude  statue,  or  had  won  credit 
for  even  higher  skill  by  the  nice  carving  of  button- 


AN  AESTHETIC  COMPANY. 


163 


holes,  shoe-ties,  coat-seams,  shirt-bosoms,  and  other  such 
graceful  peculiarities  of  modern  costume.  Smart, 
practical  men  they  doubtless  were,  and  some  of  them 
far  more  than  this,  but,  still,  not  precisely  what  an  un¬ 
initiated  person  looks  for  in  a  sculptor.  A  sculptor, 
indeed,  to  meet  the  demands  which  our  preconceptions 
make  upon  him,  should  be  even  more  indispensably 
a  poet  than  those  who  deal  in  measured  verse  and 
rhyme.  His  material,  or  instrument,  which  serves 
him  in  the  stead  of  shifting  and  transitory  language, 
is  a  pure,  white,  undecaying  substance.  It  insures 
immortality  to  whatever  is  wrought  in  it,  and  there¬ 
fore  makes  it  a  religious  obligation  to  commit  no  idea 
to  its  mighty  guardianship,  save  such  as  may  repay 
the  marble  for  its  faithful  care,  its  incorruptible  fidel¬ 
ity,  by  warming  it  with  an  ethereal  life.  Under  this 
aspect,  marble  assumes  a  sacred  character ;  and  no 
man  should  dare  to  touch  it  unless  he  feels  within 
himself  a  certain  consecration  and  a  priesthood,  the 
only  evidence  of  which,  for  the  public  eye,  will  be  the 
high  treatment  of  heroic  subjects,  or  the  delicate  evo¬ 
lution  of  spiritual,  through  material  beauty. 

No  ideas  such  as  the  foregoing  —  no  misgivings  sug¬ 
gested  by  them  —  probably  troubled  the  self-compla¬ 
cency  of  most  of  these  clever  sculptors.  Marble,  in 
their  view,  had  no  such  sanctity  as  we  impute  to  it. 
It  was  merely  a  sort  of  white  limestone  from  Carrara, 
cut  into  convenient  blocks,  and  worth,  in  that  state, 
about  two  or  three  dollars  per  pound ;  and  it  was  sus¬ 
ceptible  of  being  wrought  into  certain  shapes  (by  their 
own  mechanical  ingenuity,  or  that  of  artisans  in  their 
employment)  which  would  enable  them  to  sell  it  again 
at  a  much  higher  figure.  Such  men,  on  the  strength 
of  some  small  knack  in  handling  clay,  which  might 


164 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


have  been  fitly  employed  in  making  wax -work,  are 
bold  to  call  themselves  sculptors.  How  terrible  should 
be  the  thought,  that  the  nude  woman  whom  the  mod¬ 
ern  artist  patches  together,  bit  by  bit,  from  a  dozen 
heterogeneous  models,  meaning  nothing  by  her,  shall 
last  as  long  as  the  Venus  of  the  Capitol !  — -  that  his 
group  of  —  no  matter  what,  since  it  has  no  moral  or 
intellectual  existence  —  will  not  physically  crumble 
any  sooner  than  the  immortal  agony  of  the  Laocoon  ! 

Yet  we  love  the  artists,  in  every  kind ;  even  these, 
whose  merits  we  are  not  quite  able  to  appreciate. 
Sculptors,  painters,  crayon  -  sketchers,  or  whatever 
branch  of  {esthetics  they  adopted,  were  certainly  pleas¬ 
anter  people,  as  we  saw  them  that  evening,  than  the 
average  whom  we  meet  in  ordinary  society.  They 
were  not  wholly  confined  within  the  sordid  compass  of 
practical  life ;  they  had  a  pursuit  which,  if  followed 
faithfully  out,  would  lead  them  to  the  beautiful,  and 
always  had  a  tendency  thitherward,  even  if  they  lin¬ 
gered  to  gather  up  golden  dross  by  the  wayside.  Their 
actual  business  (though  they  talked  about  it  very 
much  as  other  men  talk  of  cotton,  politics,  flour-bar¬ 
rels,  and  sugar)  necessarily  illuminated  their  conver¬ 
sation  with  something  akin  to  the  ideal.  So,  when 
the  guests  collected  themselves  in  little  groups,  here 
and  there,  in  the  wide  saloon,  a  cheerful  and  airy  gos¬ 
sip  began  to  be  heard.  The  atmosphere  ceased  to  be 
precisely  that  of  common  life ;  a  faint,  mellow  tinge, 
such  as  we  see  in  pictures,  mingled  itself  with  the 
lamplight. 

This  good  effect  was  assisted  by  many  curious  lit¬ 
tle  treasures  of  art,  which  the  host  had  taken  care  to 
strew  upon  his  tables.  They  were  principally  such 
bits  of  antiquity  as  the  soil  of  Rome  and  its  neighbor- 


AN  AESTHETIC  COMPANY . 


165 


hood  are  still  rich  in;  seals,  gems,  small  figures  of 
bronze,  mediaeval  carvings  in  ivoiy ;  things  which  had 
been  obtained  at  little  cost,  yet  might  have  borne  no 
inconsiderable  value  in  the  museum  of  a  virtuoso. 

As  interesting  as  any  of  these  relics  was  a  large 
portfolio  of  old  drawings,  some  of  which,  in  the  opin¬ 
ion  of  their  possessor,  bore  evidence  on  their  faces  of 
the  touch  of  master-hands.  Very  ragged  and  ill-con- 
ditioned  they  mostly  were,  yellow  with  time,  and  tat¬ 
tered  with  rough  usage ;  and,  in  their  best  estate,  the 
designs  had  been  scratched  rudely  with  pen  and  ink, 
on  coarse  paper,  or,  if  drawn  with  charcoal  or  a  pen¬ 
cil,  were  now  half  rubbed  out.  You  would  not  any¬ 
where  see  rougher  and  homelier  things  than  these. 
But  this  hasty  rudeness  made  the  sketches  only  the 
more  valuable ;  because  the  artist  seemed  to  have  be¬ 
stirred  himself  at  the  pinch  of  the  moment,  snatching 
up  whatever  material  was  nearest,  so  as  to  seize  the 
first  glimpse  of  an  idea  that  might  vanish  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye.  Thus,  by  the  spell  of  a  creased, 
soiled,  and  discolored  scrap  of  paper,  you  were  ena¬ 
bled  to  steal  close  to  an  old  master,  and  watch  him  in 
the  very  effervescence  of  his  genius. 

According  to  the  judgment  of  several  connoisseurs, 
Raphael’s  own  hand  had  communicated  its  magnetism 
to  one  of  these  sketches ;  and,  if  genuine,  it  was  evi¬ 
dently  his  first  conception  of  a  favorite  Madonna,  now 
hanging  in  the  private  apartment  of  the  Grand  Duke, 
at  Florence.  Another  drawing  was  attributed  to  Leo¬ 
nardo  da  Vinci,  and  appeared  to  be  a  somewhat  varied 
design  for  his  picture  of  Modesty  and  Vanity,  in  the 
Sciarra  Palace.  There  were  at  least  half  a,  dozen 
others,  to  which  the  owner  assigned  as  high  an  origin. 
It  was  delightful  to  believe  in  their  authenticity,  al 


166 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


all  events  ;  for  these  things  make  the  spectator  more 
vividly  sensible  of  a  great  painter’s  power,  than  the 
final  glow  and  perfected  art  of  the  most  consummate 
picture  that  may  have  been  elaborated  from  them. 
There  is  an  effluence  of  divinity  in  the  first  sketch; 
and  there,  if  anywhere,  you  find  the  pure  light  of  in¬ 
spiration,  which  the  subsequent  toil  of  the  artist  serves 
to  bring  out  in  stronger  lustre,  indeed,  but  likewise 
adulterates  it  with  what  belongs  to  an  inferior  mood. 
The  aroma  and  fragrance  of  new  thought  were  percep¬ 
tible  in  these  designs,  after  three  centuries  of  wear 
and  tear.  The  charm  lay  partly  in  their  very  imper¬ 
fection  ;  for  this  is  suggestive,  and  sets  the  imagina¬ 
tion  at  work  ;  whereas,  the  finished  picture,  if  a  good 
one,  leaves  the  spectator  nothing  to  do,  and,  if  bad, 
confuses,  stupefies,  disenchants,  and  disheartens  him. 

Hilda  was  greatly  interested  in  this  rich  portfolio. 
She  lingered  so  long  over  one  particular  sketch,  that 
Miriam  asked  her  what  discovery  she  had  made. 

44  Look  at  it  carefully,”  replied  Hilda,  putting  the 
sketch  into  her  hands.  44  If  you  take  pains  to  disen¬ 
tangle  the  design  from  those  pencil-marks  that  seem 
to  have  been  scrawled  over  it,  I  think  you  will  see 
something  very  curious.” 

44  It  is  a  hopeless  affair,  I  am  afraid,”  said  Miriam. 
44 1  have  neither  your  faith,  dear  Hilda,  nor  your  per¬ 
ceptive  faculty.  Fie  !  what  a  blurred  scrawl  it  is  in¬ 
deed  !  ” 

The  drawing  had  originally  been  very  slight,  and 
had  suffered  more  from  time  and  hard  usage  than  al¬ 
most  any  other  in  the  collection  ;  it  appeared,  too,  that 
there  had  been  an  attempt  (perhaps  by  the  very  hand 
that  drew  it)  to  obliterate  the  design.  By  Hilda’s 
help,  however,  Miriam  pretty  distinctly  made  out  a 


AN  AESTHETIC  COMPANY.  167 

winged  figure  with  a  drawn  sword,  and  a  dragon,  or  a 
demon,  prostrate  at  his  feet. 

“  I  am  convinced,”  said  Hilda,  in  a  low,  reverential 
tone,  “  that  Guido’s  own  touches  are  on  that  ancient 
scrap  of  paper !  If  so,  it  must  be  his  original  sketch 
for  the  picture  of  the  Archangel  Michael  setting  his 
foot  upon  the  demon,  in  the  Church  of  the  Cappuccini. 
The  composition  and  general  arrangement  of  the  sketch 
are  the  same  with  those  of  the  picture  ;  the  only  dif¬ 
ference  being,  that  the  demon  has  a  more  upturned 
face,  and  scowls  vindictively  at  the  Archangel,  who 
turns  away  his  eyes  in  painful  disgust.” 

“No  wonder  !  ”  responded  Miriam.  “  The  expres¬ 
sion  suits  the  daintiness  of  Michael’s  character,  as 
Guido  represents  him.  He  never  could  have  looked 
the  demon  in  the  face !  ” 

“  Miriam  !  ”  exclaimed  her  friend,  reproachfully, 
“  you  grieve  me,  and  you  know  it,  by  pretending  to 
speak  contemptuously  of  the  most  beautiful  and  the 
divinest  figure  that  mortal  painter  ever  drew.” 

“  Forgive  me,  Hilda !  ”  said  Miriam.  “You  take 
these  matters  more  religiously  than  I  can,  for  my  life. 
Guido’s  Archangel  is  a  fine  picture,  of  course,  but  it 
never  impressed  me  as  it  does  you.” 

“  W ell ;  we  will  not  talk  of  that,”  answered  Hilda. 
“  What  1  wanted  you  to  notice,  in  this  sketch,  is  the 
face  of  the  demon.  It  is  entirely  unlike  the  demon 
of  the  finished  picture.  Guido,  you  know,  always  af¬ 
firmed  that  the  resemblance  to  Cardinal  Pamfili  was 
either  casual  or  imaginary.  Now,  here  is  the  face  as 
he  first  conceived  it.” 

“  And  a  more  energetic  demon,  altogether,  than  that 
of  the  finished  picture,  ’  said  Kenyon,  taking  the  sketch 
into  his  hand.  “  What  a  spirit  is  conveyed  into  the 


168 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENT. 


ugliness  of  tliis  strong,  writhing,  squirming  dragon, 
under  the  Archangel’s  foot !  Neither  is  the  face  an 
impossible  one.  Upon  my  word,  I  have  seen  it  some¬ 
where,  and  on  the  shoulders  of  a  living  man  !  ” 

“  And  so  have  I,”  said  Hilda.  “  It  was  what  struck 
me  from  the  first.” 

u  Donatello,  look  at  this  face !  ”  cried  Kenyon. 

The  young  Italian,  as  may  be  supposed,  took  little 
interest  in  matters  of  art,  and  seldom  or  never  ven¬ 
tured  an  opinion  respecting  them.  After  holding  the 
sketch  a  single  instant  in  his  hand,  he  flung  it  from 
him  with  a  shudder  of  disgust  and  repugnance,  and  a 
frown  that  had  all  the  bitterness  of  hatred. 

“  I  know  the  face  well !  ”  whispered  he.  46  It  is 
Miriam’s  model !  ” 

It  was  acknowledged  both  by  Kenyon  and  Hilda 
that  they  had  detected,  or  fancied,  the  resemblance 
which  Donatello  so  strongly  affirmed ;  and  it  added 
not  a  little  to  the  grotesque  and  weird  character  which, 
half  playfully,  half  seriously,  they  assigned  to  Mir¬ 
iam’s  attendant,  to  think  of  him  as  personating  the 
demon’s  part  in  a  picture  of  more  than  two  centuries 
ago.  Had  Guido,  in  his  effort  to  imagine  the  utmost 
of  sin  and  misery,  which  his  pencil  could  represent, 
hit  ideally  upon  just  this  face  ?  Or  was  it  an  actual 
portrait  of  somebody,  that  haunted  the  old  master,  as 
Miriam  was  haunted  now  ?  Did  the  ominous  shadow 
follow  him  through  all  the  sunshine  of  his  earlier  ca¬ 
reer,  and  into  the  gloom  that  gathered  about  its  close  ? 
And  when  Guido  died,  did  the  spectre  betake  himself 
to  those  ancient  sepulchres,  there  awaiting  a  new  vic¬ 
tim,  till  it  was  Miriam’s  ill-hap  to  encounter  him  ? 

“  I  do  not  acknowledge  the  resemblance  at  all,” 
said  Miriam,  looking  narrowly  at  the  sketch;  “and,  as 


AN  AESTHETIC  COMPANY.  169 

I  have  drawn  the  face  twenty  times,  I  think  you  will 
own  that  I  am  the  best  judge.” 

A  discussion  here  arose,  in  reference  to  Guido’s 
Archangel,  and  it  was  agreed  that-  these  four  friends 
should  visit  the  Church  of  the  Cappuccini  the  next 
morning,  and  critically  examine  the  picture  in  ques¬ 
tion  ;  the  similarity  between  it  and  the  sketch  being, 
at  all  events,  a  very  curious  circumstance. 

It  was  now  a  little  past  ten  o’clock,  when  some  of 
the  company,  who  had  been  standing  in  a  balcony,  de¬ 
clared  the  moonlight  to  be  resplendent.  They  pro¬ 
posed  a  ramble  through  the  streets,  taking  in  their 
way  some  of  those  scenes  of  ruin  which  produced  their 
best  effects  under  the  splendor  of  the  Italian  moon. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


A  MOONLIGHT  RAMBLE. 

The  proposal  for  a  moonlight  ramble  was  received 
with  acclamation  by  all  the  younger  portion  of  the 
company.  They  immediately  set  forth  and  descended 
from  story  to  story,  dimly  lighting  their  way  by  waxen 
tapers,  which  are  a  necessary  equipment  to  those  whose 
thoroughfare,  in  the  night  -  time,  lies  up  and  down  a 
Roman  staircase.  Emerging  from  the  court-yard  of 
the  edifice,  they  looked  upward  and  saw  the  sky  full 
of  light,  which  seemed  to  have  a  delicate  purple  or 
crimson  lustre,  or,  at  least,  some  richer  tinge  than  the 
cold,  white  moonshine  of  other  skies.  It  gleamed  over 
the  front  of  the  opposite  palace,  showing  the  architec¬ 
tural  ornaments  of  its  cornice  and  pillared  portal,  as 
well  as  the  iron-barred  basement-windows,  that  gave 
such  a  prison-like  aspect  to  the  structure,  and  the 
shabbiness  and  squalor  that  lay  along  its  base.  A 
cobbler  was  just  shutting  up  his  little  shop,  in  the 
basement  of  the  palace ;  a  cigar-vender’s  lantern  flared 
in  the  blast  that  came  through  the  archway;  a  French 
sentinel  paced  to  and  fro  before  the  portal ;  a  home¬ 
less  dog,  that  haunted  thereabouts,  barked  as  obstrepe¬ 
rously  at  the  party  as  if  he  were  the  domestic  guardian 
of  the  precincts. 

The  air  was  quietly  full  of  the  noise  of  falling  water, 
the  cause  of  which  was  nowhere  visible,  though  appar¬ 
ently  near  at  hand.  This  pleasant,  natural  sound,  not 


A  MOONLIGHT  RAMBLE. 


171 


unlike  that  of  a  distant  cascade  in  the  forest,  may  be 
heard  in  many  of  the  Roman  streets  and  piazzas,  when 
the  tumult  of  the  city  is  hushed  ;  for  consuls,  empe¬ 
rors,  and  popes,  the  great  men  of  every  age,  have 
found  no  better  way  of  immortalizing  their  memories, 
than  by  the  shifting,  indestructible,  ever  new,  yet  un¬ 
changing,  upgush  and  downfall  of  water.  They  have 
written  their  names  in  that  unstable  element,  and 
proved  it  a  more  durable  record  than  brass  or  marble. 

“  Donatello,  you  had  better  take  one  of  those  gay, 
boyish  artists  for  your  companion,”  said  Miriam, 
when  she  found  the  Italian  youth  at  her  side.  “  I  am 
not  now  in  a  merry  mood,  as  when  we  set  all  the 
world  a-dancing  the  other  afternoon,  in  the  Borghese 
grounds.” 

“  I  never  wish  to  dance  any  more,”  answered  Dona¬ 
tello. 

“  What  a  melancholy  was  in  that  tone  !  ”  exclaimed 
Miriam.  “  You  are  getting  spoilt  in  this  dreary  Rome, 
and  will  be  as  wise  and  as  wretched  as  all  the  rest  of 
mankind,  unless  you  go  back  soon  to  your  Tuscan 
vineyards.  W ell ;  give  me  your  arm  then  !  But  take 
care  that  no  friskiness  comes  over  you.  We  must 
walk  evenly  and  heavily  to-night!  ” 

The  party  arranged  itself  according  to  its  natural 
affinities  or  casual  likings  ;  a  sculptor  generally  choos¬ 
ing  a  painter,  and  a  painter  a  sculptor,  for  his  com¬ 
panion,  in  preference  to  brethren  of  their  own  art. 
Kenyon  would  gladly  have  taken  Hilda  to  himself, 
and  have  drawn  her  a  little  aside  from  the  throng  of 
merry  wayfarers.  But  she  kept  near  Miriam,  and 
seemed,  in  her  gentle  and  quiet  way,  to  decline  a  sepa¬ 
rate  alliance  either  with  him  or  any  other  of  her  ac¬ 
quaintances. 


172 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENE 


So  they  set  forth,  and  had  gone  but  a  little  way, 
when  the  narrow  street  emerged  into  a  piazza,  on  one 
side  of  which  glistening,  and  dimpling  in  the  moon¬ 
light,  was  the  most  famous  fountain  in  Home.  Its 
murmur  —  not  to  say  its  uproar  —  had  been  in  the 
ears  of  the  company,  ever  since  they  came  into  the 
open  air.  It  was  the  Fountain  of  Trevi,  which  draws 
its  precious  water  from  a  source  far  beyond  the  walls, 
whence  it  flows  hitherward  through  old  subterranean 
aqueducts,  and  sparkles  forth  as  pure  as  the  virgin 
who  first  led  Agrippa  to  its  well-spring,  by  her  father’s 
door. 

“I  shall  sip  as  much  of  this  water  as  the  hollow 
of  my  hand  will  hold,”  said  Miriam.  u  I  am  leaving 
Rome  in  a  few  days ;  and  the  tradition  goes,  that  a 
parting  draught  at  the  Fountain  of  Trevi  insures  the 
traveller’s  return,  whatever  obstacles  and  improbabili¬ 
ties  may  seem  to  beset  him.  Will  you  drink,  Dona¬ 
tello  ?  ” 

“  Signorina,  what  you  drink,  I  drink,”  said  the 
youth. 

They  and  the  rest  of  the  party  descended  some  steps 
to  the  water’s  brim,  and,  after  a  sip  or  two,  stood  gaz¬ 
ing  at  the  absurd  design  of  the  fountain,  where  some 
sculptor  of  Bernini’s  school  had  gone  absolutely  mad 
in  marble.  It  was  a  great  palace-front,  with  niches 
and  many  bas-reliefs,  out  of  which  looked  Agrippa’s 
legendary  virgin,  and  several  of  the  allegoric  sister¬ 
hood  ;  while,  at  the  base,  appeared  Neptune,  with  his 
floundering  steeds,  and  Tritons  blowing  their  horns 
about  him,  and  twenty  other  artificial  fantasies,  which 
the  calm  moonlight  soothed  into  better  taste  than  was 
native  to  them. 

And,  after  all,  it  was  as  magnificent  a  piece  of  work 


A  MOONLIGHT  RAMBLE. 


173 


as  ever  human  skill  contrived.  At  the  foot  of  the  pa¬ 
latial  facade  was  strown,  with  careful  art  and  ordered 
irregularity,  a  broad  and  broken  heap  of  massive  rock, 
looking  as  if  it  might  have  lain  there  since  the  deluge. 
Over  a  central  precipice  fell  the  water,  in  a  semicircu¬ 
lar  cascade ;  and  from  a  hundred  crevices,  on  all  sides, 
snowy  jets  gushed  up,  and  streams  spouted  out  of  the 
mouths  and  nostrils  of  stone  monsters,  and  fell  in  glis¬ 
tening  drops;  while  other  rivulets,  that  had  run  wild, 
came  leaping  from  one  rude  step  to  another,  over 
stones  that  were  mossy,  slimy,  and  green  with  sedge, 
because,  in  a  century  of  their  wild  play,  Nature  had 
adopted  the  Fountain  of  Trevi,  with  all  its  elaborate 
devices,  for  her  own.  Finally,  the  water,  tumbling, 
sparkling,  and  dashing,  with  joyous  haste  and  never- 
ceasing  murmur,  poured  itself  into  a  great  marble- 
brimmed  reservoir,  and  filled  it  with  a  quivering  tide ; 
on  which  was  seen,  continually,  a  snowy  semicircle  of 
momentary  foam  from  the  principal  cascade,  as  well 
as  a  multitude  of  snow-points  from  smaller  jets.  The 
basin  occupied  the  whole  breadth  of  the  piazza,  whence 
flights  of  steps  descended  to  its  border.  A  boat  might 
float,  and  make  voyages  from  one  shore  to  another  in 
this  mimic  lake. 

In  the  daytime,  there  is  hardly  a  livelier  scene  in 
Rome  than  the  neighborhood  of  the  Fountain  of  Trevi ; 
for  the  piazza  is  then  filled  with  the  stalls  of  vegetable 
and  fruit-dealers,  chestnut-roasters,  cigar-venders,  and 
other  people,  whose  petty  and  wandering  traffic  is 
transacted  in  the  open  air.  It  is  likewise  thronged 
with  idlers,  lounging  over  the  iron  railing,  and  with 
Forestieri,  who  came  hither  to  see  the  famous  foun¬ 
tain,  Here,  also,  are  seen  men  with  buckets,  urchins 
with  cans,  and  maidens  (a  picture  as  old  as  the  patri- 


174 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENE 


archal  times)  bearing  their  pitchers  upon  their  heads. 
For  the  water  of  Trevi  is  in  request,  far  and  wide,  as 
the  most  refreshing  draught  for  feverish  lips,  the  pleas¬ 
antest  to  mingle  with  wine,  and  the  wholesomest  to 
drink,  in  its  native  purity,  that  can  anywhere  be  found, 
But  now,  at  early  midnight,  the  piazza  was  a  solitude  \ 
and  it  was  a  delight  to  behold  this  untamable  water, 
sporting  by  itself  in  the  moonshine,  and  compelling 
all  the  elaborate  trivialities  of  art  to  assume  a  natu¬ 
ral  aspect,  in  accordance  with  its  own  powerful  sim¬ 
plicity. 

“  What  would  be  done  with  this  water-power,”  sug¬ 
gested  an  artist,  “  if  we  had  it  in  one  of  our  American 
cities  ?  W ould  they  employ  it  to  turn  the  machinery 
of  a  cotton-mill,  I  wonder  ?  ” 

“  The  good  people  would  pull  down  those  rampant 
marble  deities,”  said  Kenyon,  “  and,  possibly,  they 
would  give  me  a  commission  to  carve  the  one -and- 
thirty  (is  that  the  number  ?  )  sister  States,  each  pour¬ 
ing  a  silver  stream  from  a  separate  can  into  one  vast 
basin,  which  should  represent  the  grand  reservoir  of 
national  prosperity.” 

“Or,  if  they  wanted  a  bit  of  satire,”  remarked  an 
English  artist,  “  you  could  set  those  same  one  -  and- 
thirty  States  to  cleansing  the  national  flag  of  any 
stains  that  it  may  have  incurred.  The  Roman  washer¬ 
women  at  the  lavatory  yonder,  plying  their  labor  in 
Tie  open  air,  would  serve  admirably  as  models.” 

“  I  have  often  intended  to  visit  this  fountain  by 
moonlight,”  said  Miriam,  “  because  it  was  here  that 
the  interview  took  place  between  Corinne  and  Lord 
Neville,  after  their  separation  and  temporary  estrange¬ 
ment.  Pray  come  behind  me,  one  of  you,  and  let  me 
try  whether  the  face  can  be  recognized  in  the  water.” 


A  MOONLIGHT  RAMBLE. 


175 


Leaning  over  the  stone  brim  of  the  basin,  she 
heard  footsteps  stealing  behind  her,  and  knew  that 
somebody  was  looking  over  her  shoulder.  The  moon¬ 
shine  fell  directly  behind  Miriam,  illuminating  the 
palace-front  and  the  whole  scene  of  statues  and  rocks, 
and  filling  the  basin,  as  it  were,  with  tremulous  and 
palpable  light.  Corinne,  it  will  be  remembered,  knew 
Lord  Neville  by  the  reflection  of  his  face  in  the  water. 
In  Miriam’s  case,  however  (owing  to  the  agitation  of 
the  water,  its  transparency,  and  the  angle  at  which  she 
was  compelled  to  lean  over),  no  reflected  image  ap¬ 
peared  ;  nor,  from  the  same  causes,  would  it  have  been 
possible  for  the  recognition  between  Corinne  and  her 
lover  to  take  place.  The  moon,  indeed,  flung  Mir¬ 
iam’s  shadow  at  the  bottom  of  the  basin,  as  well  as 
two  more  shadows  of  persons  who  had  followed  her, 
on  either  side. 

“  Three  shadows  !  ”  exclaimed  Miriam.  “  Three  sep¬ 
arate  shadows,  all  so  black  and  heavy  that  they  sink 
in  the  water !  There  they  lie  on  the  bottom,  as  if  all 
three  were  drowned  together.  This  shadow  on  my 
right  is  Donatello ;  I  know  him  by  his  curls,  and  the 
turn  of  his  head.  My  left-hand  companion  puzzles 
me ;  a  shapeless  mass,  as  indistinct  as  the  premonition 
of  calamity !  Which  of  you  can  it  be  ?  Ah !  ” 

She  had  turned  round,  while  speaking,  and  saw  be¬ 
side  her  the  strange  creature,  whose  attendance  on  her 
was  already  familiar,  as  a  marvel  and  a  jest,  to  the 
whole  company  of  artists.  A  general  burst  of  laugh¬ 
ter  followed  the  recognition  ;  while  the  model  leaned 
towards  Miriam,  as  she  shrank  from  him,  and  mut¬ 
tered  something  that  was  inaudible  to  those  who  wit¬ 
nessed  the  scene.  By  his  gestures,  however,  they  con¬ 
cluded  that  he  was  inviting  her  to  bathe  her  hands. 


176 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


“  He  cannot  be  an  Italian  ;  at  least  not  a  Roman,’ 
observed  an  artist.  “  I  never  knew  one  of  them  to 
care  about  ablution.  See  him  now !  It  is  as  if  he 
were  trying  to  wash  off  the  time-stains  and  earthly  soil 
of  a  thousand  years !  ” 

Dipping  his  hands  into  the  capacious  washbowl  be¬ 
fore  him,  the  model  rubbed  them  together  with  the  ut¬ 
most  vehemence.  Ever  and  anon,  too,  he  peeped  into 
the  water,  as  if  expecting  to  see  the  whole  Fountain  of 
Trevi  turbid  with  the  results  of  his  ablution.  Miriam 
looked  at  him,  some  little  time,  with  an  aspect  of  real 
terror,  and  even  imitated  him  by  leaning  over  to  peep 
into  the  basin.  Recovering  herself,  she  took  up  some 
of  the  water  in  the  hollow  of  her  hand,  and  practised 
an  old  form  of  exorcism  by  flinging  it  in  her  persecu¬ 
tor’s  face. 

“  In  the  name  of  all  the  Saints,”  cried  she,  “  van¬ 
ish,  Demon,  and  let  me  be  free  of  you  now  and  for¬ 
ever  !  ” 

“  It  will  not  suffice,”  said  some  of  the  mirthful  par¬ 
ty,  “  unless  the  Fountain  of  Trevi  gushes  with  holy 
water.” 

In  fact,  the  exorcism  was  quite  ineffectual  upon  the 
pertinacious  demon,  or  whatever  the  apparition  might 
be.  Still  he  washed  his  brown,  bony  talons  ;  still  he 
peered  into  the  vast  basin,  as  if  all  the  water  of  that 
great  drinking-cup  of  Rome  must  needs  be  stained 
black  or  sanguine  ;  and  still  he  gesticulated  to  Miriam 
to  follow  his  example.  The  spectators  laughed  loudly, 
but  yet  with  a  kind  of  constraint ;  for  the  creature’s 
aspect  was  strangely  repulsive  and  hideous. 

Miriam  felt  her  arm  seized  violently  by  Donatello. 
She  looked  at  him,  and  beheld  a  tiger-like  fury  gleam, 
ing  from  his  wild  eyes. 


A  MOONLIGHT  RAMBLE. 


177 


“  Bid  me  drown  him  !  ”  whispered  he,  shuddering 
between  rage  and  horrible  disgust.  “You  shall  hear 
his  death -gurgle  in  another  instant !  ” 

“  Peace,  peace,  Donatello  !  ”  said  Miriam,  soothing¬ 
ly,  for  this  naturally  gentle  and  sportive  being  seemed 
all  aflame  with  animal  rage.  44  Do  him  no  mischief  ! 
He  is  mad  ;  and  we  are  as  mad  as  he,  if  we  suffer  our¬ 
selves  to  be  disquieted  by  his  antics.  Let  us  leave 
him  to  bathe  his  hands  till  the  fountain  run  dry,  if  he 
find  solace  and  pastime  in  it.  What  is  it  to  you  or 
me,  Donatello  ?  There,  there  !  Be  quiet,  foolish 
boy !  ” 

Her  tone  and  gesture  were  such  as  she  might  have 
used  in  taming  down  the  wrath  of  a  faithful  hound, 
that  had  taken  upon  himself  to  avenge  some  supposed 
affront  to  his  mistress.  She  smoothed  the  young 
man’s  curls  (for  his  fierce  and  sudden  fury  seemed  to 
bristle  among  his  hair),  and  touched  his  cheek  with 
her  soft  palm,  till  his  angry  mood  was  a  little  as¬ 
suaged. 

“  Signorina,  do  I  look  as  when  you  first  knew  me  ?  ” 
asked  he,  with  a  heavy,  tremulous  sigh,  as  they  went 
onward,  somewhat  apart  from  their  companions.  46  Me- 
thinks  there  has  been  a  change  upon  me,  these  many 
months;  and  more  and  more,  these  last  few  days. 
The  joy  is  gone  out  of  my  life  ;  all  gone !  all  gone ! 
Feel  my  hand!  Is  it  not  very  hot?  Ah;  and  my 
heart  burns  hotter  still !  ” 

44  My  poor  Donatello,  you  are  ill !  ”  said  Miriam, 
with  deep  sympathy  and  pity.  44  This  melancholy  and 
sickly  Rome  is  stealing  away  the  rich,  joyous  life  that 
belongs  to  you.  Go  back,  my  dear  friend,  to  your 
home  among  the  hills,  where  (as  I  gather  from  what 
you  have  told  me)  your  days  were  filled  with  simple 

VOL.  VI. 


178 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


and  blameless  delights.  Have  you  found  aught  in  the 
world  that  is  worth  what  you  there  enjoyed  ?  Tell  me 
truly,  Donatello !  ” 

“  Yes !  ”  replied  the  young  man. 

“  And  what,  in  Heaven’s  name  ?  ”  asked  she. 

“  This  burning  pain  in  my  heart,”  said  Donatello : 
*v  for  you  are  in  the  midst  of  it.” 

By  this  time,  they  had  left  the  Fountain  of  Trevi 
considerably  behind  them.  Little  further  allusion  was 
made  to  the  scene  at  its  margin ;  for  the  party  re¬ 
garded  Miriam’s  persecutor  as  diseased  in  his  wits, 
and  were  hardly  to  be  surprised  by  any  eccentricity  in 
his  deportment. 

Threading  several  narrow  streets,  they  passed  through 
the  Piazza  of  the  Holy  Apostles,  and  soon  came  to 
Trajan’s  Forum.  All  over  the  surface  of  what  once 
was  Rome,  it  seems  to  be  the  effort  of  Time  to  bury 
up  the  ancient  city,  as  if  it  were  a  corpse,  and  he  the 
sexton ;  so  that,  in  eighteen  centuries,  the  soil  over  its 
grave  has  grown  very  deep,  by  the  slow  scattering  of 
dust,  and  the  accumulation  of  more  modern  decay 
upon  older  ruin. 

This  was  the  fate,  also,  of  Trajan’s  Forum,  until 
some  papal  antiquary,  a  few  hundred  years  ago,  began 
to  hollow  it  out  again,  and  disclosed  the  full  height 
of  the  gigantic  column  wreathed  round  with  bas-reliefs 
of  the  old  emperor’s  warlike  deeds.  In  the  area  be¬ 
fore  it  stands  a  grove  of  stone,  consisting  of  the  broken 
and  unequal  shafts  of  a  vanished  temple,  still  keeping 
a  majestic  order,  and  apparently  incapable  of  further 
demolition.  The  modern  edifices  of  the  piazza  (wholly 
built,  no  doubt,  out  of  the  spoil  of  its  old  magnifi¬ 
cence)  look  down  into  the  hollow  space  whence  these 
pillars  rise. 


A  MOONLIGHT  RAMBLE. 


179 


One  of  the  immense  gray  granite  shafts  lay  in  the 
piazza,  on  the  verge  of  the  area.  It  was  a  great,  solid 
fact  of  the  Past,  making  old  Rome  actually  sensible  to 
the  touch  and  eye ;  and  no  study  of  history,  nor  force 
of  thought,  nor  magic  of  song,  could  so  vitally  assure 
us  that  Rome  once  existed,  as  this  sturdy  specimen  of 
what  its  rulers  and  people  wrought. 

“  And  see !  ”  said  Kenyon,  laying  his  hand  upon  it, 
“there  is  still  a  polish  remaining  on  the  hard  sub¬ 
stance  of  the  pillar ;  and  even  now,  late  as  it  is,  I  can 
feel  very  sensibly  the  warmth  of  the  noonday  sun, 
which  did  its  best  to  heat  it  through.  This  shaft  will 
endure  forever.  The  polish  of  eighteen  centuries  ago, 
as  yet  but  half  rubbed  off,  and  the  heat  of  to-day’s 
sunshine,  lingering  into  the  night,  seem  almost  equally 
ephemeral  in  relation  to  it.” 

“  There  is  comfort  to  be  found  in  the  pillar,”  re¬ 
marked  Miriam,  “hard  and  heavy  as  it  is.  Lying 
here  forever,  as  it  will,  it  makes  all  human  trouble 
appear  but  a  momentary  annoyance.” 

“And  human  happiness  as  evanescent  too,”  ob¬ 
served  Hilda,  sighing ;  “  and  beautiful  art  hardly  less 
so !  I  do  not  love  to  think  that  this  dull  stone, 
merely  by  its  massiveness,  will  last  infinitely  longer 
than  any  picture,  in  spite  of  the  spiritual  life  that 
ought  to  give  it  immortality  !  ” 

“  My  poor  little  Hilda,”  said  Miriam,  kissing  her 
compassionately,  “  would  you  sacrifice  this  greatest 
mortal  consolation,  which  we  derive  from  the  transi¬ 
toriness  of  all  things,  —  from  the  right  of  saying,  in 
every  conjecture,  4  This,  too,  will  pass  away,’  —  would 
you  give  up  this  unspeakable  boon,  for  the  sake  of 
making  a  picture  eternal  ?  ” 

Their  moralizing  strain  was  interrupted  by  a  dem- 


180 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


onstration  from  the  rest  of  the  party,  who,  after  talk¬ 
ing  and  laughing  together,  suddenly  joined  their  voices, 
and  shouted  at  full  pitch,  — 

44  Trajan  !  Trajan  !  ” 

44  Why  do  you  deafen  us  with  such  an  uproar  ?  ”  in¬ 
quired  Miriam. 

In  truth,  the  whole  piazza  had  been  filled  with  their 
idle  vociferation ;  the  echoes  from  the  surrounding 
houses  reverberating  the  cry  of  44  Trajan,”  on  all 
sides  ;  as  if  there  was  a  great  search  for  that  imperial 
personage,  and  not  so  much  as  a  handful  of  his  ashes 
to  be  found. 

44  Why,  it  was  a  good  opportunity  to  air  our  voices 
in  this  resounding  piazza,”  replied  one  of  the  artists. 
44  Besides,  we  had  really  some  hopes  of  summoning 
Trajan  to  look  at  his  column,  which,  you  know,  he 
never  saw  in  his  lifetime.  Here  is  your  model  (who, 
they  say,  lived  and  sinned  before  Trajan’s  death)  still 
wandering  about  Rome  ;  and  why  not  the  Emperor 
Trajan  ?  ” 

u  Dead  emperors  have  very  little  delight  in  their 
columns,  I  am  afraid,”  observed  Kenyon.  44  All  that 
rich  sculpture  of  Trajan’s  bloody  warfare,  twining 
from  the  base  of  the  pillar  to  its  capital,  may  be  but 
an  ugly  spectacle  for  his  ghostly  eyes,  if  he  considers 
that  this  huge,  storied  shaft  must  be  laid  before  the 
judgment-seat,  as  a  piece  of  the  evidence  of  what  he 
did  in  the  flesh.  If  ever  I  am  employed  to  sculpture 
a  hero’s  monument,  I  shall  think  of  this,  as  I  put  in 
the  bas-reliefs  of  the  pedestal !  ” 

44  There  are  sermons  in  stones,”  said  Hilda,  thought¬ 
fully,  smiling  at  Kenyon’s  morality ;  44  and  especially 
in  the  stones  of  Rome.” 

The  party  moved  on,  but  deviated  a  little  from  the 
straight  way,  in  order  to  glance  at  the  ponderous  re- 


A  MOONLIGHT  RAMBLE . 


181 


mains  of  the  temple  of  Mars  Ultor,  within  which  a 
convent  of  nuns  is  now  established,  —  a  dove-cote,  in 
the  war-god’s  mansion.  At  only  a  little  distance,  they 
passed  the  portico  of  a  Temple  of  Minerva,  most  rich 
and  beautiful  in  architecture,  but  wofully  gnawed  by 
time  and  shattered  by  violence,  besides  being  buried 
midway  in  the  accumulation  of  soil,  that  rises  over 
dead  Koine  like  a  flood-tide.  Within  this  edifice  of 
antique  sanctity,  a  baker’s  shop  was  now  established, 
with  an  entrance  on  one  side ;  for,  everywhere,  the 
remnants  of  old  grandeur  and  divinity  have  been 
made  available  for  the  meanest  necessities  of  to-day. 

“The  baker  is  just  drawing  his  loaves  out  of  the 
oven,”  remarked  Kenyon.  “  Do  you  smell  how  sour 
they  are  ?  I  should  fancy  that  Minerva  (in  revenge 
for  the  desecration  of  her  temple)  had  slyly  poured 
vinegar  into  the  batch,  if  I  did  not  know  that  the 
modern  Komans  prefer  their  bread  in  the  acetous  fer¬ 
mentation.” 

They  turned  into  the  Yia  Alessandria,  and  thus 
gained  the  rear  of  the  Temple  of  Peace,  and,  passing 
beneath  its  great  arches,  pursued  their  way  along  a 
hedge-bordered  lane.  In  all  probability,  a  stately 
Roman  street  lay  buried  beneath  that  rustic-looking 
pathway ;  for  they  had  now  emerged  from  the  close 
and  narrow  avenues  of  the  modern  city,  and  were 
treading  on  a  soil  where  the  seeds  of  antique  grandeur 
had  not  yet  produced  the  squalid  crop  that  elsewhere 
sprouts  from  them.  Grassy  as  the  lane  was,  it  skirted 
along  heaps  of  shapeless  ruin,  and  the  bare  site  of  tke 
vast  temple  that  Hadrian  planned  and  built.  It  ter¬ 
minated  on  the  edge  of  a  somewhat  abrupt  descent,  at 
the  foot  of  which,  with  a  muddy  ditch  between,  rose, 
in  the  bright  moonlight,  the  great  curving  wall  and 
multitudinous  arches  of  the  Coliseum. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


Miriam’s  trouble. 

As  usual  of  a  moonlight  evening,  several  carriages 
stood  at  the  entrance  of  this  famous  ruin,  and  the 
precincts  and  interior  were  anything  hut  a  solitude. 
The  French  sentinel  on  duty  beneath  the  principal 
archway  eyed  our  party  curiously,  but  offered  no  ob¬ 
stacle  to  their  admission.  Within,  the  moonlight 
filled  and  flooded  the  great  empty  space ;  it  glowed 
upon  tier  above  tier  of  ruined,  grass-grown  arches, 
and  made  (hem  even  too  distinctly  visible.  The  splen¬ 
dor  of  the  revelation  took  away  that  inestimable  effect 
of  dimness  and  mystery  by  which  the  imagination 
might  be  assisted  to  build  a  grander  structure  than 
the  Coliseum,  and  to  shatter  it  with  a  more  pictur¬ 
esque  decay.  Byron’s  celebrated  description  is  better 
than  the  reality.  He  beheld  the  scene  in  his  mind’s 
eye,  through  the  witchery  of  many  intervening  years, 
and  faintly  illuminated  it  as  if  with  starlight  instead 
of  this  broad  glow  of  moonshine. 

The  party  of  our  friends  sat  down,  three  or  four  of 
them  on  a  prostrate  column,  another  on  a  shapeless 
lump  of  marble,  once  a  Roman  altar ;  others  on  the 
steps  of  one  of  the  Christian  shrines.  Goths  and  bar¬ 
barians  though  they  were,  they  chatted  as  gayly  to¬ 
gether  as  if  they  belonged  to  the  gentle  and  pleasant 
race  of  people  who  now  inhabit  Italy.  There  was 
much  pastime  and  gayety  just  then  in  the  area  of  the 


MIRIAM  S  TROUBLE. 


183 


Coliseum,  where  so  many  gladiators  and  wild  beasts 
had  fought  and  died,  and  where  so  much  blood  of 
Christian  martyrs  had  been  lapped  up  by  that  fiercest 
of  wild  beasts,  the  Roman  populace  of  yore.  Some 
youths  and  maidens  were  running  merry  races  across 
the  open  space,  and  playing  at  hide-and-seek  a  little 
way  within  the  duskiness  of  the  ground-tier  of  arches, 
whence  now  and  then  you  could  hear  the  half-shriek, 
half-laugh  of  a  frolicsome  girl,  whom  the  shadow  had 
betrayed  into  a  young  man’s  arms.  Elder  groups  were 
seated  on  the  fragments  of  pillars  and  blocks  of  marble 
that  lay  round  the  verge  of  the  arena,  talking  in  the 
quick,  short  ripple  of  the  Italian  tongue.  On  the  steps 
of  the  great  black  cross  in  the  centre  of  the  Coliseum 
sat  a  party  singing  scraps  of  songs,  with  much  laughter 
and  merriment  between  the  stanzas. 

It  was  a  strange  place  for  song  and  mirth.  That 
black  cross  marks  one  of  the  special  blood-spots  of  the 
earth  where,  thousands  of  times  over,  the  dying  gladia¬ 
tor  fell,  and  more  of  human  agony  has  been  endured 
for  the  mere  pastime  of  the  multitude  than  on  the 
breadth  of  many  battle-fields.  From  all  this  crime 
and  suffering,  however,  the  spot  has  derived  a  more 
than  common  sanctity.  An  inscription  promises  seven 
years’  indulgence,  seven  years  of  remission  from  the 
pains  of  purgatory,  and  earlier  enjoyment  of  heavenly 
bliss,  for  each  separate  kiss  imprinted  on  the  black 
cross.  What  better  use  could  be  made  of  life,  after 
middle-age,  when  the  accumulated  sins  are  many  and 
the  remaining  temptations  few,  than  to  spend  it  all  in 
kissing  the  black  cross  of  the  Coliseum  ! 

Besides  its  central  consecration,  the  whole  area  has 
been  made  sacred  by  a  range  of  shrines,  which  are 
erected  round  the  circle,  each  commemorating  some 


184 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


scene  or  circumstance  of  the  Saviour’s  passion  and 
suffering.  In  accordance  with  an  ordinary  custom  a 
pilgrim  was  making  his  progress  from  shrine  to  shrine 
upon  his  knees,  and  saying  a  penitential  prayer  at 
each.  Light-footed  girls  ran  across  the  path  along 
which  he  crept,  or  sported  with  their  friends  close  by 
the  shrines  where  he  was  kneeling.  The  pilgrim  took 
no  heed,  and  the  girls  meant  no  irreverence;  for  in 
Italy  religion  jostles  along  side  by  side  with  business 
and  sport,  after  a  fashion  of  its  own,  and  people  are 
accustomed  to  kneel  down  and  pray,  or  see  others 
praying,  between  two  fits  of  merriment,  or  between 
two  sins. 

To  make  an  end  of  our  description,  a  red  twinkle  of 
light  was  visible  amid  the  breadth  of  shadow  that  fell 
across  the  upper  part  of  the  Coliseum.  Now  it  glim¬ 
mered  through  a  line  of  arches,  or  threw  a  broader 
gleam  as  it  rose  out  of  some  profound  abyss  of  ruin ; 
now  it  was  muffled  by  a  heap  of  shrubbery  which  had 
adventurously  clambered  to  that  dizzy  height ;  and 
so  the  red  light  kept  ascending  to  loftier  and  loftier 
ranges  of  the  structure,  until  it  stood  like  a  star  where 
the  blue  sky  rested  against  the  Coliseum’s  topmost 
wall.  It  indicated  a  party  of  English  or  Americans 
paying  the  inevitable  visit  by  moonlight,  and  exalting 
themselves  with  raptures  that  were  Byron’s,  not  their 
own. 

Our  company  of  artists  sat  on  the  fallen  column, 
the  pagan  altar,  and  the  steps  of  the  Christian  shrine, 
enjoying  the  moonlight  and  shadow,  the  present  gay- 
ety  and  the  gloomy  reminiscences  of  the  scene,  in  al¬ 
most  equal  share.  Artists,  indeed,  are  lifted  by  the 
ideality  of  their  pursuits  a  little  way  off  the  earth,  and 
are  therefore  able  to  catch  the  evanescent  fragrance 


MIRIAM'S  TROUBLE . 


185 


that  floats  in  the  atmosphere  of  life  above  the  heads 
of  the  ordinary  crowd.  Even  if  they  seem  endowed 
with  little  imagination  individually,  yet  there  is  a 
property,  a  gift,  a  talisman,  common  to  their  class, 
entitling  them  to  partake  somewhat  more  bountifully 
than  other  people  in  the  thin  delights  of  moonshine 
and  romance. 

“  How  delightful  this  is !  ”  said  Hilda ;  and  she 
sighed  for  very  pleasure. 

“Yes,”  said  Kenyon,  who  sat  on  the  column,  at  her 
side.  “  The  Coliseum  is  far  more  delightful,  as  we 
enjoy  it  now,  than  when  eighty  thousand  persons  sat 
squeezed  together,  row  above  row,  to  see  their  fellow- 
creatures  torn  by  lions  and  tigers  limb  from  limb. 
What  a  strange  thought  that  the  Coliseum  was  really 
built  for  us,  and  has  not  come  to  its  best  uses  till  al¬ 
most  two  thousand  years  after  it  was  finished  !  ” 

“  The  Emperor  Vespasian  scarcely  had  us  in  his 
mind,”  said  Hilda,  smiling ;  “  but  I  thank  him  none 
the  less  for  building  it.” 

“  He  gets  small  thanks,  I  fear,  from  the  people 
whose  bloody  instincts  he  pampered,”  rejoined  Ken¬ 
yon.  “  Fancy  a  nightly  assemblage  of  eighty  thou¬ 
sand  melancholy  and  remorseful  ghosts,  looking  down 
from  those  tiers  of  broken  arches,  striving  to  repent  of 
the  savage  pleasures  which  they  once  enjoyed,  but  still 
longing  to  enjoy  them  over  again.” 

“  You  bring  a  Gothic  horror  into  this  peaceful  moon¬ 
light  scene,”  said  Hilda. 

“  Nay,  I  have  good  authority  for  peopling  the  Coli¬ 
seum  with  phantoms,”  replied  the  sculptor.  “  Do  you 
remember  that  veritable  scene  in  Benvenuto  Cellini’s 
autobiography,  in  which  a  necromancer  of  his  acquaint¬ 
ance  draws  a  magic  circle  —  just  where  the  black  cross 


186 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


stands  now,  I  suppose  —  and  raises  myriads  of  de¬ 
mons  ?  Benvenuto  saw  them  with  his  own  eyes,  — 
giants,  pygmies,  and  other  creatures  of  frightful  as¬ 
pect,  —  capering  and  dancing  on  yonder  walls.  Those 
spectres  must  have  been  Romans,  in  their  lifetime,  and 
frequenters  of  this  bloody  amphitheatre.” 

u  I  see  a  spectre,  now !  ”  said  Hilda,  with  a  little 
thrill  of  uneasiness.  “  Have  you  watched  that  pil¬ 
grim,  who  is  going  round  the  whole  circle  of  shrines, 
on  his  knees,  and  praying  with  such  fervency  at  every 
one  ?  Now  that  he  has  revolved  so  far  in  his  orbit, 
and  has  the  moonshine  on  his  face  as  he  turns  towards 
us,  methinks  I  recognize  him !  ” 

“  And  so  do  I,”  said  Kenyon.  “  Poor  Miriam  !  Do 
you  think  she  sees  him  ?  ” 

They  looked  round,  and  perceived  that  Miriam  had 
risen  from  the  steps  of  the  shrine  and  disappeared. 
She  had  shrunk  back,  in  fact,  into  the  deep  obscurity 
of  an  arch  that  opened  just  behind  them. 

Donatello,  whose  faithful  watch  was  no  more  to  be 
eluded  than  that  of  a  hound,  had  stolen  after  her, 
and  became  the  innocent  witness  of  a  spectacle  that 
had  its  own  kind  of  horror.  Unaware  of  his  pres¬ 
ence,  and  fancying  herself  wholly  unseen,  the  beautiful 
Miriam  began  to  gesticulate  extravagantly,  gnashing 
her  teeth,  flinging  her  arms  wildly  abroad,  stamping 
with  her  foot.  It  was  as  if  she  had  stepped  aside  for 
an  instant,  solely  to  snatch  the  relief  of  a  brief  fit  of 
madness.  Persons  in  acute  trouble,  or  laboring  under 
strong  excitement,  with  a  necessity  for  concealing  it, 
are  prone  to  relieve  their  nerves  in  this  wild  way  ; 
although,  when  practicable,  they  find  a  more  effectual 
solace  in  shrieking  aloud. 

Thus,  as  soon  as  she  threw  off  her  self-control,  under 


MIRIAM’S  TROUBLE. 


187 


the  dusky  arches  of  the  Coliseum,  we  may  consider 
Miriam  as  a  mad  woman,  concentrating  the  elements 
of  a  long  insanity  into  that  instant. 

44  Signorina !  signorina  !  have  pity  on  me  !  ”  cried 
Donatello,  approaching  her  ;  44  this  is  too  terrible  !  ” 

44  How  dare  you  look  at  me !  ”  exclaimed  Miriam, 
with  a  start ;  then,  whispering  below  her  breath,  44  men 
have  been  struck  dead  for  a  less  offence!  ” 

44  If  you  desire  it,  or  need  it,”  said  Donatello,  hum¬ 
bly,  44  I  shall  not  be  loath  to  die.” 

44  Donatello,”  said  Miriam,  coming  close  to  the  young 
man,  and  speaking  low,  but  still  the  almost  insanity  of 
the  moment  vibrating  in  her  voice,  44  if  you  love  your¬ 
self  ;  if  you  desire  those  earthly  blessings,  such  as  you, 
of  all  men,  were  made  for  ;  if  you  would  come  to  a 
good  old  age  among  your  olive  -  orchards  and  your 
Tuscan  vines,  as  your  forefathers  did ;  if  you  would 
leave  children  to  enjoy  the  same  peaceful,  happy,  in¬ 
nocent  life,  then  flee  from  me.  Look  not  behind  you ! 
Get  you  gone  without  another  word.”  He  gazed  sadly 
at  her,  but  did  not  stir.  44 1  tell  you,”  Miriam  went 
on,  44  there  is  a  great  evil  hanging  over  me !  I  know 
it ;  I  see  it  in  the  sky ;  I  feel  it  in  the  air  !  It  will 
overwhelm  me  as  utterly  as  if  this  arch  should  crum¬ 
ble  down  upon  our  heads  !  It  will  crush  you,  too,  if 
you  stand  at  my  side !  Depart,  then  ;  and  make  the 
sign  of  the  cross,  as  your  faith  bids  you,  when  an  evil 
spirit  is  nigh.  Cast  me  off,  or  you  are  lost  forever.” 

A  higher  sentiment  brightened  upon  Donatello’s 
face  than  had  hitherto  seemed  to  belong  to  its  simple 
expression  and  sensuous  beauty. 

44 1  will  never  quit  you,”  he  said  ;  44  you  cannot  drive 
me  from  you.” 

44  Poor  Donatello !  ”  said  Miriam,  in  a  changed  tone, 


188 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


and  rather  to  herself  than  him.  “  Is  there  no  other 
that  seeks  me  out,  —  follows  me,  —  is  obstinate  to 
share  my  affliction  and  my  doom,  —  hut  only  you ! 
They  call  me  beautiful ;  and  I  used  to  fancy  that,  at 
my  need,  I  could  bring  the  whole  world  to  my  feet. 
And  lo  !  here  is  my  utmost  need  ;  and  my  beauty  and 
my  gifts  have  brought  me  only  this  poor,  simple  boyc 
Half-witted,  they  call  him ;  and  surely  fit  for  nothing 
but  to  be  happy.  And  I  accept  his  aid !  To-morrow, 
to-morrow,  I  will  tell  him  all !  Ah !  what  a  sin  to 
stain  his  joyous  nature  with  the  blackness  of  a  woe 
like  mine !  ” 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  him,  and  smiled  sadly  as 
Donatello  pressed  it  to  his  lips.  They  were  now  about 
to  emerge  from  the  depth  of  the  arch ;  but,  just  then, 
the  kneeling  pilgrim,  in  his  revolution  round  the  orbit 
of  the  shrines,  had  reached  the  one  on  the  steps  of 
which  Miriam  had  been  sitting.  There,  as  at  the  other 
shrines,  he  prayed,  or  seemed  to  pray.  It  struck  Ken¬ 
yon,  however,  —  who  sat  close  by,  and  saw  his  face 
distinctly,  —  that  the  suppliant  was  merely  perform¬ 
ing  an  enjoined  penance,  and  without  the  penitence 
that  ought  to  have  given  it  effectual  life.  Even  as  he 
knelt,  his  eyes  wandered,  and  Miriam  soon  felt  that 
he  had  detected  her,  half  hidden  as  she  was  within  the 
obscurity  of  the  arch. 

“  He  is  evidently  a  good  Catholic,  however,”  whis¬ 
pered  one  of  the  party.  “  After  all,  I  fear  we  cannot 
identify  him  with  the  ancient  pagan  who  haunts  the 
catacombs.” 

“  The  doctors  of  the  Propaganda  may  have  converted 
him,”  said  another ;  “  they  have  had  fifteen  hundred 
years  to  perform  the  task.” 

The  company  now  deemed  it  time  to  continue  their 


i 


.\->ujuu 


MIRIAM'S  TROUBLE. 


189 


ramble.  Emerging  from  a  side  entrance  of  the  Coli¬ 
seum,  they  had  on  their  left  the  Arch  of  Constantine, 
and,  above  it,  the  shapeless  ruins  of  the  Palace  of  the 
Csesars  ;  portions  of  which  have  taken  shape  anew,  in 
mediaeval  convents  and  modern  villas.  They  turned 
their  faces  cityward,  and,  treading  over  the  broad 
flagstones  of  the  old  Roman  pavement,  passed  through 
the  Arch  of  Titus.  The  moon  shone  brightly  enough 
within  it,  to  show  the  seven-branched  J ewish  candle¬ 
stick,  cut  in  the  marble  of  the  interior.  The  original 
of  that  awful  trophy  lies  buried,  at  this  moment,  in 
the  yellow  mud  of  the  Tiber  ;  and,  could  its  gold  of 
Ophir  again  be  brought  to  light,  it  would  be  the  most 
precious  relic  of  past  ages,  in  the  estimation  of  both 
Jew  and  Gentile. 

Standing  amid  so  much  ancient  dust,  it  is  difficult 
to  spare  the  reader  the  commonplaces  of  enthusiasm, 
on  which  hundreds  of  tourists  have  already  insisted. 
Over  this  half-worn  pavement,  and  beneath  this  Arch 
of  Titus,  the  Roman  armies  had  trodden  in  their  out¬ 
ward  march,  to  fight  battles,  a  world’s  width  away. 
Returning  victorious,  with  royal  captives  and  inesti¬ 
mable  spoil,  a  Roman  triumph,  that  most  gorgeous  pa¬ 
geant  of  earthly  pride,  had  streamed  and  flaunted  in 
hundred-fold  succession  over  these  same  flagstones,  and 
through  this  yet  stalwart  archway.  It  is  politic,  how¬ 
ever,  to  make  few  allusions  to  such  a  past ;  nor,  if  we 
would  create  an  interest  in  the  characters  of  our  story, 
is  it  wise  to  suggest  how  Cicero’s  foot  may  have  stepped 
on  yonder  stone,  or  how  Horace  was  wont  to  stroll  near 
by,  making  his  footsteps  chime  with  the  measure  of  the 
ode  that  was  ringing  in  his  mind.  The  very  ghosts  of 
that  mass  ive  and  stately  epoch  have  so  much  density 
that  the  actual  people  of  to-day  seem  the  thinner  of  the 


190 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


two,  and  stand  more  ghostlike  by  the  arches  and  col¬ 
umns,  letting  the  rich  sculpture  be  discerned  through 
their  ill-compacted  substance. 

The  party  kept  onward,  often  meeting  pairs  and 
groups  of  midnight  strollers  like  themselves.  On  such 
a  moonlight  night  as  this,  Rome  keeps  itself  awake 
and  stirring,  and  is  full  of  song  and  pastime,  the  noise 
of  which  mingles  with  your  dreams,  if  you  have  gone 
betimes  to  bed.  But  it  is  better  to  be  abroad,  and 
take  our  own  share  of  the  enjoyable  time  ;  for  the 
languor  that  weighs  so  heavily  in  the  Roman  atmos¬ 
phere  by  day  is  lightened  beneath  the  moon  and  stars. 

They  had  now  reached  the  precincts  of  the  Forum. 


CHAPTER  XYm. 


ON  THE  EDGE  OF  A  PRECIPICE. 

“  Let  us  settle  it,”  said  Kenyon,  stamping  his  foot 
firmly  down,  44  that  this  is  precisely  the  spot  where  the 
chasm  opened,  into  which  Curtius  precipitated  his  good 
steed  and  himself.  Imagine  the  great,  dusky  gap,  im¬ 
penetrably  deep,  and  with  half  -  shaped  monsters  and 
hideous  faces  looming  upward  out  of  it,  to  the  vast  af¬ 
fright  of  the  good  citizens  who  peeped  over  the  brim ! 
There,  now,  is  a  subject,  hitherto  unthought  of,  for  a 
grim  and  ghastly  story,  and,  methinks,  with  a  moral  as 
deep  as  the  gulf  itself.  Within  it,  beyond  a  question, 
there  were  prophetic  visions,  —  intimations  of  all  the 
future  calamities  of  Rome,  —  shades  of  Goths,  and 
Gauls,  and  even  of  the  French  soldiers  of  to-day.  It 
was  a  pity  to  close  it  up  so  soon  !  I  would  give  much 
for  a  peep  into  such  a  chasm.” 

44 1  fancy,”  remarked  Miriam,  44  that  every  person 
takes  a  peep  into  it  in  moments  of  gloom  and  despon¬ 
dency  ;  that  is  to  say,  in  his  moments  of  deepest  in¬ 
sight.” 

44  Where  is  it,  then  ?  ”  asked  Hilda.  44 1  never 
peeped  into  it.” 

44  Wait,  and  it  will  open  for  you,”  replied  her  friend. 
44  The  chasm  was  merely  one  of  the  orifices  of  that  pit 
of  blackness  that  lies  beneath  us,  everywhere.  The 
firmest  substance  of  human  happiness  is  but  a  thin 
crust  spread  over  it,  with  just  reality  enough  to  bear 


192  ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 

up  the  illusive  stage-scenery  amid  which  we  tread.  It 
needs  no  earthquake  to  open  the  chasm.  A  footstep, 
a  little  heavier  than  ordinary,  will  serve  ;  and  we  must 
step  very  daintily,  not  to  break  through  the  crust  at 
any  moment.  By  and  by,  we  inevitably  sink !  It 
was  a  foolish  piece  of  heroism  in  Curtius  to  precipitate 
himself  there,  in  advance  ;  for  all  Borne,  you  see,  has 
been  swallowed  up  in  that  gulf,  in  spite  of  him.  The 
Palace  of  the  Caesars  has  gone  down  thither,  with  a 
hollow,  rumbling  sound  of  its  fragments !  All  the 
temples  have  tumbled  into  it ;  and  thousands  of  stat¬ 
ues  have  been  thrown  after  !  All  the  armies  and  the 
triumphs  have  marched  into  the  great  chasm,  with 
their  martial  music  playing,  as  they  stepped  over  the 
brink.  All  the  heroes,  the  statesmen,  and  the  poets  ! 
All  piled  upon  poor  Curtius,  who  thought  to  have 
saved  them  all !  I  am  loath  to  smile  at  the  self-con¬ 
ceit  of  that  gallant  horseman,  but  cannot  well  avoid 
it.” 

“  It  grieves  me  to  hear  you  speak  thus,  Miriam,” 
said  Hilda,  whose  natural  and  cheerful  piety  was 
shocked  by  her  friend’s  gloomy  view  of  human  desti¬ 
nies.  “  It  seems  to  me  that  there  is  no  chasm,  nor 
any  hideous  emptiness  under  our  feet,  except  what  the 
evil  within  us  digs.  If  there  be  such  a  chasm,  let  us 
bridge  it  over  with  good  thoughts  and  deeds,  and  we 
shall  tread  safely  to  the  other  side.  It  was  the  guilt 
of  Borne,  no  doubt,  that  caused  this  gulf  to  open  ;  and 
Curtius  filled  it  up  with  his  heroic  self-sacrifice  and 
patriotism,  which  was  the  best  virtue  that  the  old 
Bomans  knew.  Every  wrong  thing  makes  the  gulf 
deeper  ;  every  right  one  helps  to  fill  it  up.  As  the 
evil  of  Borne  wTas  far  more  than  its  good,  the  whole 
commonwealth  finally  sank  into  it,  indeed,  but  of  no 
original  necessity.” 


ON  THE  EDGE  OF  A  PRECIPICE.  193 


“Well,  Hilda,  it  came  to  the  same  thing  at  last,” 
answered  Miriam,  despondingly. 

“  Doubtless,  too,”  resumed  the  sculptor  (for  his  im¬ 
agination  was  greatly  excited  by  the  idea  of  this  won¬ 
drous  chasm),  “  all  the  blood  that  the  Romans  shed, 
whether  on  battle-fields,  or  in  the  Coliseum,  or  on  the 
cross,  —  in  whatever  public  or  private  murder,  —  ran 
into  this  fatal  gulf,  and  formed  a  mighty  subterranean 
lake  of  gore,  right  beneath  our  feet.  The  blood  from 
the  thirty  wounds  in  Caesar’s  breast  flowed  hitherward, 
and  that  pure  little  rivulet  from  Virginia’s  bosom,  too  ! 
Virginia,  beyond  all  question,  was  stabbed  by  her  fa¬ 
ther,  precisely  where  we  are  standing.” 

“  Then  the  spot  is  hallowed  forever !  ”  said  Hilda. 

“  Is  there  such  blessed  potency  in  bloodshed  ?  ” 
asked  Miriam.  “  Nay,  Hilda,  do  not  protest !  I  take 
your  meaning  rightly.” 

They  again  moved  forward.  And  still,  from  the 
Forum  and  the  Via  Sacra,  from  beneath  the  arches  of 
the  Temple  of  Peace  on  one  side,  and  the  acclivity  of 
the  Palace  of  the  Caesars  on  the  other,  there  arose 
singing  voices  of  parties  that  were  strolling  through 
the  moonlight.  Thus,  the  air  was  full  of  kindred 
melodies  that  encountered  one  another,  and  twined 
themselves  into  a  broad,  vague  music,  out  of  which  no 
single  strain  could  be  disentangled.  These  good  ex¬ 
amples,  as  well  as  the  harmonious  influences  of  the 
hour,  incited  our  artist-friends  to  make  proof  of  their 
own  vocal  powers.  With  what  skill  and  breath  they 
had,  they  set  up  a  choral  strain,  —  “  Hail,  Columbia !  ” 
we  believe,  —  which  those  old  Roman  echoes  must 
have  found  it  exceeding  difficult  to  repeat  aright. 
Even  Hilda  poured  the  slender  sweetness  of  her  note 
into  her  country’s  song.  Miriam  was  at  first  silent, 

VOL.  VI.  { 


194 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENT. 


being  perhaps  unfamiliar  with  the  air  and  burden. 
But,  suddenly,  she  threw  out  such  a  swell  and  gush  oi 
sound,  that  it  seemed  to  pervade  the  whole  choir  of 
other  voices,  and  then  to  rise  above  them  all,  and  be¬ 
come  audible  in  what  would  else  have  been  the  silence 
of  an  upper  region.  That  volume  of  melodious  voice 
was  one  of  the  tokens  of  a  great  trouble.  There  had 
long  been  an  impulse  upon  her  —  amounting,  at  last, 
to  a  necessity  —  to  shriek  aloud ;  but  she  had  strug¬ 
gled  against  it,  till  the  thunderous  anthem  gave  her 
an  opportunity  to  relieve  her  heart  by  a  great  cry. 

They  passed  the  solitary  Column  of  Phocas,  and 
looked  down  into  the  excavated  space,  where  a  confu¬ 
sion  of  pillars,  arches,  pavements,  and  shattered  blocks 
and  shafts  —  the  crumbs  of  various  ruin  dropped  from 
the  devouring  maw  of  Time  —  stand,  or  lie,  at  the 
base  of  the  Capitoline  Hill.  That  renowned  hillock 
(for  it  is  little  more)  now  arose  abruptly  above  them. 
The  ponderous  masonry,  with  which  the  hill-side  is 
built  up,  is  as  old  as  Pome  itself,  and  looks  likely  to 
endure  while  the  world  retains  any  substance  or  per¬ 
manence.  It  once  sustained  the  Capitol,  and  now 
bears  up  the  great  pile  which  the  mediaeval  builders 
raised  on  the  antique  foundation,  and  that  still  lof¬ 
tier  tower,  which  looks  abroad  upon  a  larger  page  of 
deeper  historic  interest  than  any  other  scene  can  show. 
On  the  same  pedestal  of  Roman  masonry,  other  struc¬ 
tures  will  doubtless  rise,  and  vanish  like  ephemeral 
things. 

To  a  spectator  on  the  spot,  it  is  remarkable  that  the 
events  of  Poman  history,  and  Poman  life  itself,  ap¬ 
pear  not  so  distant  as  the  Gothic  ages  which  succeeded 
them.  We  stand  in  the  Forum,  or  on  the  height  of 
the  Capitol,  and  seem  to  see  the  Poman  epoch  close  at 


ON  THE  EDGE  OF  A  PRECIPICE.  195 

hand.  We  forget  that  a  chasm  extends  between  it 
and  ourselves,  in  which  lie  all  those  dark,  rude,  unlet¬ 
tered  centuries,  around  the  birth-time  of  Christianity, 
as  well  as  the  age  of  chivalry  and  romance,  the  feudal 
system,  and  the  infancy  of  a  better  civilization  than 
that  of  Rome.  Or,  if  we  remember  these  mediaeval 
times,  they  look  further  off  than  the  Augustan  age. 
The  reason  may  be,  that  the  old  Roman  literature  sur¬ 
vives,  and  creates  for  us  an  intimacy  with  the  classic 
ages,  which  we  have  no  means  of  forming  with  the 
subsequent  ones. 

The  Italian  climate,  moreover,  robs  age  of  its  rever¬ 
ence  and  makes  it  look  newer  than  it  is.  Not  the  Coli¬ 
seum,  nor  the  tombs  of  the  Appian  Way,  nor  the  old¬ 
est  pillar  in  the  Forum,  nor  any  other  Roman  ruin,  be 
it  as  dilapidated  as  it  may,  ever  give  the  impression  of 
venerable  antiquity  which  we  gather,  along  with  the 
ivy,  from  the  gray  walls  of  an  English  abbey  or  castle. 
And  yet  every  brick  or  stone,  which  we  pick  up  among 
the  former,  had  fallen  ages  before  the  foundation  of 
the  latter  was  begun.  This  is  owing  to  the  kindliness 
with  which  Nature  takes  an  English  ruin  to  her  heart, 
covering  it  with  ivy,  as  tenderly  as  Robin  Redbreast 
covered  the  dead  babes  with  forest  leaves.  She  strives 
to  make  it  a  part  of  herself,  gradually  obliterating  the 
handiwork  of  man,  and  supplanting  it  with  her  own 
mosses  and  trailing  verdure,  till  she  has  won  the  whole 
structure  back.  But,  in  Italy,  whenever  man  has  once 
hewn  a  stone,  Nature  forthwith  relinquishes  her  right 
to  it,  and  never  lays  her  finger  on  it  again.  Age  after 
age  finds  it  bare  and  naked,  in  the  barren  sunshine, 
and  leaves  it  so.  Besides  this  natural  disadvantage, 
too,  each  succeeding  century,  in  Rome,  has  done  its 
best  to  ruin  the  very  ruins,  so  far  as  their  picturesque 


196 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENT. 


effect  is  concerned,  by  stealing  away  the  marble  and 
hewn  stone,  and  leaving  only  yellow  bricks,  which 
never  can  look  venerable. 

The  party  ascended  the  winding  way  that  leads  from 
the  Forum  to  the  Piazza  of  the  Campidoglio  on  the 
summit  of  the  Capitoline  Hill.  They  stood  awhile  to 
contemplate  the  bronze  equestrian  statue  of  Marcus 
Aurelius.  The  moonlight  glistened  upon  traces  of  the 
gilding  which  had  once  covered  both  rider  and  steed ; 
these  were  almost  gone,  but  the  aspect  of  dignity  was 
still  perfect,  clothing  the  figure  as  it  were  with  an  im¬ 
perial  robe  of  light.  It  is  the  most  majestic  represen¬ 
tation  of  the  kingly  character  that  ever  the  world  has 
seen.  A  sight  of  the  old  heathen  emperor  is  enough 
to  create  an  evanescent  sentiment  of  loyalty  even  in 
a  democratic  bosom,  so  august  does  he  look,  so  fit  to 
rule,  so  worthy  of  man’s  profoundest  homage  and 
obedience,  so  inevitably  attractive  of  his  love.  He 
stretches  forth  his  hand  with  an  air  of  grand  benefi¬ 
cence  and  unlimited  authority,  as  if  uttering  a  decree 
from  which  no  appeal  was  permissible,  but  in  which 
the  obedient  subject  would  find  his  highest  interests 
consulted ;  a  command  that  was  in  itself  a  benedic¬ 
tion. 

“  The  sculptor  of  this  statue  knew  what  a  king 
should  be,”  observed  Kenyon,  “and  knew,  likewise, 
the  heart  of  mankind,  and  how  it  craves  a  true  ruler, 
under  whatever  title,  as  a  child  its  father.” 

“  Oh,  if  there  were  but  one  such  man  as  this  !  ”  ex¬ 
claimed  Miriam.  “  One  such  man  in  an  age,  and  one 
in  all  the  world  ;  then  how  speedily  would  the  strife, 
wickedness,  and  sorrow  of  us  poor  creatures  be  re¬ 
lieved.  We  would  come  to  him  with  our  griefs,  what¬ 
ever  they  might  be,  —  even  a  poor,  frail  woman  bur- 


OX  THE  EDGE  OF  A  PRECIPICE .  197 


dened  with  her  heavy  heart,  —  and  lay  them  at  his 
feet,  and  never  need  to  take  them  up  again.  The 
rightful  king  would  see  to  all.” 

“  What  an  idea  of  the  regal  office  and  duty !  ”  said 
Kenyon,  with  a  smile.  “  It  is  a  woman’s  idea  of  the 
whole  matter  to  perfection.  It  is  Hilda’s,  too,  no 
doubt  ?  ” 

“  No,”  answered  the  quiet  Hilda  ;  “  I  should  never 
look  for  such  assistance  from  an  earthly  king.” 

“Hilda,  my  religious  Hilda,”  whispered  Miriam, 
suddenly  drawing  the  girl  close  to  her,  “  do  you  know 
how  it  is  with  me-?  I  would  give  all  I  have  or  hope 
—  my  life,  oh  how  freely  —  for  one  instant  of  your 
trust  in  God  !  You  little  guess  my  need  of  it.  You 
really  think,  then,  that  He  sees  and  cares  for  us  ?  ” 

“  Miriam,  you  frighten  me.” 

“  Hush,  hush !  do  not  let  them  hear  you !  ”  whis¬ 
pered  Miriam.  “  I  frighten  you,  you  say  ;  for  Heaven’s 
sake,  how  ?  Am  I  strange  ?  is  there  anything  wild  in 
my  behavior  ?  ” 

“  Only  for  that  moment,”  replied  Hilda,  “  because 
you  seemed  to  doubt  God’s  providence.” 

“We  will  talk  of  that  another  time,”  said  her  friend. 
“  Just  now  it  is  very  dark  to  me.” 

On  the  left  of  the  Piazza  of  the  Campidoglio,  as 
you  face  cityward,  and  at  the  head  of  the  long  and 
stately  flight  of  steps  descending  from  the  Capitoline 
Hill  to  the  level  of  lower  Pome,  there  is  a  narrow 
lane  or  passage.  Into  this  the  party  of  our  friends 
now  turned.  The  path  ascended  a  little,  and  ran  along 
under  the  walls  of  a  palace,  but  soon  passed  through 
a  gateway,  and  terminated  in  a  small  paved  court¬ 
yard.  It  was  bordered  by  a  low  parapet. 

The  spot,  for  some  reason  or  other,  impressed  them 


198 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI . 


as  exceedingly  lonely.  On  one  side  was  the  great 
height  of  the  palace,  with  the  moonshine  falling  over 
it,  and  showing  all  the  windows  barred  and  shuttered. 
Not  a  human  eye  could  look  down  into  the  little  court¬ 
yard,  even  if  the  seemingly  deserted  palace  had  a 
tenant.  On  all  other  sides  of  its  narrow  compass 
there  was  nothing  but  the  parapet,  which  as  it  now  ap« 
peared  was  built  right  on  the  edge  of  a  steep  precipice. 
Gazing  from  its  imminent  brow,  the  party  beheld  a 
crowded  confusion  of  roofs  spreading  over  the  whole 
space  between  them  and  the  line  of  hills  that  lay  be¬ 
yond  the  Tiber.  A  long,  misty  wreath,  just  dense 
enough  to  catch  a  little  of  the  moonshine,  floated 
above  the  houses,  midway  towards  the  hilly  line,  and 
showed  the  course  of  the  unseen  river.  Far  away  on 
the  right,  the  moon  gleamed  on  the  dome  of  St. 
Peter’s  as  well  as  on  many  lesser  and  nearer  domes. 

44  What  a  beautiful  view  of  the  city !  ”  exclaimed 
Hilda ;  44  and  I  never  saw  Pome  from  this  point  be¬ 
fore.” 

44  It  ought  to  afford  a  good  prospect,”  said  the  sculp¬ 
tor  ;  44  for  it  was  from  this  point  —  at  least  we  are  at 
liberty  to  think  so,  if  we  choose  —  that  many  a  famous 
Roman  caught  his  last  glimpse  of  his  native  city,  and 
of  all  other  earthly  things.  This  is  one  of  the  sides 
of  the  Tarpeian  Rock.  Look  over  the  parapet,  and 
see  what  a  sheer  tumble  there  might  still  be  for  a 
traitor,  in  spite  of  the  thirty  feet  of  soil  that  have  ac¬ 
cumulated  at  the  foot  of  the  precipice.” 

They  all  bent  over,  and  saw  that  the  cliff  fell  per¬ 
pendicularly  downward  to  about  the  depth,  or  rather 
more,  at  which  the  tall  palace  rose  in  height  above  their 
heads.  Not  that  it  was  still  the  natural,  shaggy  front 
of  the  original  precipice  ;  for  it  appeared  to  be  cased 


:  •  v  a 


Marcus  Aurelius 


,,  •  >  LlH  • 


ON  THE  EDGE  OF  A  PRECIPICE.  199 


in  ancient  stone-work,  through  which  the  primeval  rock 
showed  its  face  here  and  there  grimly  and  doubtfully. 
Mosses  grew  on  the  slight  projections,  and  little  shrubs 
sprouted  out  of  the  crevices,  but  could  not  much  soften 
the  stern  aspect  of  the  cliff.  Brightly  as  the  Italian 
moonlight  fell  a-down  the  height,  it  scarcely  showed 
what  portion  of  it  was  man’s  work,  and  what  was  na¬ 
ture’s,  but  left  it  all  in  very  much  the  same  kind  of 
ambiguity  and  half-knowledge  in  which  antiquarians 
generally  leave  the  identity  of  Roman  remains. 

The  roofs  of  some  poor-looking  houses,  which  had 
been  built  against  the  base  and  sides  of  the  cliff,  rose 
nearly  midway  to  the  top ;  but  from  an  angle  of  the 
parapet  there  was  a  precipitous  plunge  straight  down¬ 
ward  into  a  stone-paved  court. 

“  I  prefer  this  to  any  other  site  as  having  been  ver¬ 
itably  the  Traitor’s  Leap,”  said  Kenyon,  “  because  it 
was  so  convenient  to  the  Capitol.  It  was  an  admi¬ 
rable  idea  of  those  stern  old  fellows  to  fling  their  po¬ 
litical  criminals  down  from  the  very  summit  on  which 
stood  the  Senate  House  and  Jove’s  Temple,  emblems 
of  the  institutions  which  they  sought  to  violate.  It 
symbolizes  how  sudden  was  the  fall  in  those  days 
from  the  utmost  height  of  ambition  to  its  profoundest 
ruin.” 

“  Come,  come  ;  it  is  midnight,”  cried  another  artist, 
“too  late  to  be  moralizing  here.  We  are  literally 
dreaming  on  the  edge  of  a  precipice.  Let  us  go 
home.” 

“It  is  time,  indeed,”  said  Hilda. 

The  sculptor  was  not  without  hopes  that  he  might 
be  favored  with  the  sweet  charge  of  escorting  Hilda 
to  the  foot  of  her  tower.  Accordingly,  when  the  party 
prepared  to  turn  back,  he  offered  her  his  arm.  Hilda 


200 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI . 


at  first  accepted  it ;  but  when  they  had  partly  threaded 
the  passage  between  the  little  court-yard  and  the  Pi¬ 
azza  del  Campidoglio,  she  discovered  that  Miriam  had 
remained  behind. 

“  I  must  go  back,”  said  she,  withdrawing  her  arm 
from  Kenyon’s;  “but  pray  do  not  come  with  me. 
Several  times  this  evening  I  have  had  a  fancy  that 
Miriam  had  something  on  her  mind,  some  sorrow  or 
perplexity,  which,  perhaps,  it  would  relieve  her  to  tell 
me  about.  No,  no  ;  do  not  turn  back  !  Donatello  will 
be  a  sufficient  guardian  for  Miriam  and  me.” 

The  sculptor  was  a  good  deal  mortified,  and  per¬ 
haps  a  little  angry  :  but  he  knew  Hilda’s  mood  of 
gentle  decision  and  independence  too  well  not  to  obey 
her.  He  therefore  suffered  the  fearless  maiden  to  re¬ 
turn  alone. 

Meanwhile  Miriam  had  not  noticed  the  departure 
of  the  rest  of  the  company ;  she  remained  on  the  edge 
of  the  precipice  and  Donatello  along  with  her. 

“  It  would  be  a  fatal  fall,  still,”  she  said  to  herself, 
looking  over  the  parapet,  and  shuddering  as  her  eye 
measured  the  depth.  “  Yes  ;  surely  yes !  Even  with¬ 
out  the  weight  of  an  overburdened  heart,  a  human 
body  would  fall  heavily  enough  upon  those  stones  to 
shake  all  its  joints  asunder.  How  soon  it  would  be 
over !  ” 

Donatello,  of  whose  presence  she  was  possibly  not 
aware,  now  pressed  closer  to  her  side  ;  and  he,  too, 
like  Miriam,  bent  over  the  low  parapet  and  trembled 
violently.  Yet  he  seemed  to  feel  that  perilous  fas¬ 
cination  which  haunts  the  brow  of  precipices,  tempt¬ 
ing  the  unwary  one  to  fling  himself  over  for  the  very 
horror  of  the  thing,  for,  after  drawing  hastily  back, 
he  again  looked  down,  thrusting  himself  out  farther 


ON  THE  EDGE  OF  A  PRECIPICE.  201 


than  before.  He  then  stood  silent  a  brief  space,  strug¬ 
gling,  perhaps,  to  make  himself  conscious  of  the  his¬ 
toric  associations  of  the  scene. 

“  What  are  you  thinking  of,  Donatello  ?  ”  asked 
Miriam. 

“  Who  are  they,”  said  he,  looking  earnestly  in  her 
face,  “who  have  been  flung  over  here  in  days  gone 
by?” 

“  Men  that  cumbered  the  world,”  she  replied.  “  Men 
whose  lives  were  the  bane  of  their  fellow-creatures. 
Men  who  poisoned  the  air,  which  is  the  common 
breath  of  all,  for  their  own  selfish  purposes.  There 
was  short  work  with  such  men  in  old  Roman  times. 
Just  in  the  moment  of  their  triumph,  a  hand,  as  of  an 
avenging  giant,  clutched  them,  and  dashed  the  wretches 
down  this  precipice.” 

“  Was  it  well  done  ?  ”  asked  the  young  man. 

“  It  was  well  done,”  answered  Miriam  ;  “  innocent 
persons  were  saved  by  the  destruction  of  a  guilty  one, 
who  deserved  his  doom.” 

While  this  brief  conversation  passed,  Donatello  had 
once  or  twice  glanced  aside  with  a  watchful  air,  just 
as  a  hound  may  often  be  seen  to  take  sidelong  note 
of  some  suspicious  object,  while  he  gives  his  more  di¬ 
rect  attention  to  something  nearer  at  hand.  Miriam 
seemed  now  first  to  become  aware  of  the  silence  that 
had  followed  upon  the  cheerful  talk  and  laughter  of  a 
few  moments  before. 

Looking  round,  she  perceived  that  all  her  company 
of  merry  friends  had  retired,  and  Hilda,  too,  in  whose 
soft  and  quiet  presence  she  had  always  an  indescrib¬ 
able  feeling  of  security.  All  gone ;  and  only  herself 
and  Donatello  left  hanging  over  the  brow  of  the  omi¬ 
nous  precipice. 


202 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENT. 


Not  so,  however ;  not  entirely  alone  !  In  the  base¬ 
ment  wall  of  the  palace,  shaded  from  the  moon,  there 
was  a  deep,  empty  niche,  that  had  probably  once  con¬ 
tained  a  statue  ;  not  empty,  either ;  for  a  figure  now 
came  forth  from  it  and  approached  Miriam.  She 
must  have  had  cause  to  dread  some  unspeakable  evil 
from  this  strange  persecutor,  and  to  know  that  this 
was  the  very  crisis  of  her  calamity ;  for,  as  he  drew 
near,  such  a  cold,  sick  despair  crept  over  her,  that  it 
impeded  her  breath,  and  benumbed  her  natural  promp¬ 
titude  of  thought.  Miriam  seemed  dreamily  to  re¬ 
member  falling  on  her  knees ;  but,  in  her  whole  recol¬ 
lection  of  that  wild  moment,  she  beheld  herself  as  in  a 
dim  show,  and  could  not  well  distinguish  what  was 
done  and  suffered  ;  no,  not  even  whether  she  were 
really  an  actor  and  sufferer  in  the  scene. 

Hilda,  meanwhile,  had  separated  herself  from  the 
sculptor,  and  turned  back  to  rejoin  her  friend.  At  a 
distance,  she  still  heard  the  mirth  of  her  late  compan¬ 
ions,  who  were  going  down  the  cityward  descent  of  the 
Capitoline  Hill ;  they  had  set  up  a  new  stave  of  mel¬ 
ody,  in  which  her  own  soft  voice,  as  well  as  the  power¬ 
ful  sweetness  of  Miriam’s,  was  sadly  missed. 

The  door  of  the  little  court-yard  had  swung  upon 
its  hinges,  and  partly  closed  itself.  Hilda  (whose 
native  gentleness  pervaded  all  her  movements)  was 
quietly  opening  it,  when  she  was  startled,  midway,  by 
the  noise  of  a  struggle  within,  beginning  and  ending 
all  in  one  breathless  instant.  Along  with  it,  or  closely 
succeeding  it,  was  a  loud,  fearful  cry,  which  quivered 
upward  through  the  air,  and  sank  quivering  downward 
to  the  earth.  Then,  a  silence !  Poor  Hilda  had  looked 
into  the  court-yard,  and  saw  the  whole  quick  passage 
of  a  deed,  which  took  but  that  little  time  to  grave  it¬ 
self  in  the  eternal  adamant. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


THE  FAUN’S  TRANSFORMATION. 

The  door  of  the  court-yard  swung  slowly,  and  closed 
itself  of  its  own  accord.  Miriam  and  Donatello  were 
now  alone  there.  She  clasped  her  hands,  and  looked 
wildly  at  the  young  man,  whose  form  seemed  to  have 
dilated,  and  whose  eyes  blazed  with  the  fierce  energy 
that  had  suddenly  inspired  him.  It  had  kindled  him 
into  a  man  ;  it  had  developed  within  him  an  intelli¬ 
gence  which  was  no  native  characteristic  of  the  Dona¬ 
tello  whom  we  have  heretofore  known.  But  that  sim¬ 
ple  and  joyous  creature  was  gone  forever. 

“  What  have  you  done  ?  ”  said  Miriam,  in  a  horror- 
stricken  whisper. 

The  glow  of  rage  "was  still  lurid  on  Donatello’s  face, 
and  now  flashed  out  again  from  his  eyes. 

“  I  did  what  ought  to  be  done  to  a  traitor  !  ”  he  re¬ 
plied.  “  I  did  what  your  eyes  bade  me  do,  when  I 
asked  them  with  mine,  as  I  held  the  wretch  over  the 
precipice  !  ” 

These  last  words  struck  Miriam  like  a  bullet.  Could 
it  be  so  ?  Had  her  eyes  provoked  or  assented  to  this 
deed  ?  She  had  not  known  it.  But,  alas  !  looking 
back  into  the  frenzy  and  turmoil  of  the  scene  just 
acted,  she  could  not  deny  —  she  was  not  sure  whether 
it  might  be  so,  or  no  —  that  a  wild  joy  had  flamed  up 
in  her  heart,  when  she  beheld  her  persecutor  in  his 
mortal  peril.  W as  it  horror  ?  —  or  ecstasy  ?  —  or 


204 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


both  in  one  ?  Be  the  emotion  what  it  might,  it  had 
blazed  up  more  madly,  when  Donatello  flung  his  vic¬ 
tim  off  the  cliff,  and  more  and  more,  while  his  shriek 
went  quivering  downward.  With  the  dead  thump 
upon  the  stones  below,  had  come  an  unutterable  hor¬ 
ror. 

“  And  my  eyes  bade  you  do  it !  ”  repeated  she. 

They  both  leaned  over  the  parapet,  and  gazed  down¬ 
ward  as  earnestly  as  if  some  inestimable  treasure  had 
fallen  over,  and  were  yet  recoverable.  On  the  pave¬ 
ment,  below,  was  a  dark  mass,  lying  in  a  heap,  with 
little  or  nothing  human  in  its  appearance,  except  that 
the  hands  were  stretched  out,  as  if  they  might  have 
clutched,  for  a  moment,  at  the  small  square  stones. 
But  there  was  no  motion  in  them  now.  Miriam 
watched  the  heap  of  mortality  while  she  could  count  a 
hundred,  which  she  took  pains  to  do.  No  stir ;  not 
a  finger  moved ! 

“  You  have  killed  him,  Donatello  !  He  is  quite 
dead  !”  said  she.  “Stone  dead!  Would  I  were  so, 
too  !  ” 

“  Did  you  not  mean  that  he  should  die  ?  ”  sternly 
asked  Donatello,  still  in  the  glow  of  that  intelligence 
which  passion  had  developed  in  him.  “  There  was 
short  time  to  weigh  the  matter  ;  but  he  had  his  trial 
in  that  breath  or  two  while  I  held  him  over  the  cliff, 
and  his  sentence  in  that  one  glance,  when  your  eyes 
responded  to  mine !  Say  that  I  have  slain  him  against 
your  will,  —  say  that  he  died  without  your  whole  con¬ 
sent,  —  and,  in  another  breath,  you  shall  see  me  lying 
beside  him.” 

“  Oh,  never !  ”  cried  Miriam.  “  My  one,  own  friend ! 
Never,  never,  never  !  ” 

She  turned  to  him,  —  the  guilty,  blood  -  stained, 


THE  FAUN’S  TRANSFORMATION.  205 


lonely  woman,  —  she  turned  to  her  fellow  -  criminal, 
the  youth,  so  lately  innocent,  whom  she  had  drawn 
into  her  doom.  She  pressed  him  close,  close  to  her 
bosom,  with  a  clinging  embrace  that  brought  their  two 
hearts  together,  till  the  horror  and  agony  of  each  was 
combined  into  one  emotion,  and  that  a  kind  of  rap¬ 
ture. 

“Yes,  Donatello,  you  speak  the  truth !  ”  said  she ; 
“  my  heart  consented  to  what  you  did.  W e  two  slew 
yonder  wretch.  The  deed  knots  us  together,  for  time 
and  eternity,  like  the  coil  of  a  serpent !  ” 

They  threw  one  other  glance  at  the  heap  of  death 
below,  to  assure  themselves  that  it  was  there ;  so  like 
a  dream  was  the  whole  thing.  Then  they  turned  from 
that  fatal  precipice,  and  came  out  of  the  court-yard, 
arm  in  arm,  heart  in  heart.  Instinctively,  they  were 
heedful  not  to  sever  themselves  so  much  as  a  pace 
or  two  from  one  another,  for  fear  of  the  terror  and 
deadly  chill  that  would  thenceforth  wait  for  them  in 
solitude.  Their  deed  —  the  crime  which  Donatello 
wrought,  and  Miriam  accepted  on  the  instant  —  had 
wreathed  itself,  as  she  said,  like  a  serpent,  in  inextric¬ 
able  links  about  both  their  souls,  and  drew  them  into 
one,  by  its  terrible  contractile  power.  It  was  closer 
than  a  marriage-bond.  So  intimate,  in  those  first  mo¬ 
ments,  was  the  union,  that  it  seemed  as  if  their  new 
sympathy  annihilated  all  other  ties,  and  that  they  were 
released  from  the  chain  of  humanity ;  a  new  sphere, 
a  special  law,  had  been  created  for  them  alone.  The 
world  could  not  come  near  them ;  they  were  safe ! 

When  they  reached  the  flight  of  steps  leading  down¬ 
ward  from  the  Capitol,  there  was  a  far-off  noise  of 
singing  and  laughter.  Swift,  indeed,  had  been  the 
rush  of  the  crisis  that  was  come  and  gone  !  This  was 


206 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


still  the  merriment  of  the  party  that  had  so  recently 
been  their  companions.  They  recognized  the  voices 
which,  a  little  while  ago,  had  accorded  and  sung  in 
cadence  with  their  own.  But  they  were  familiar  voices 
no  more ;  they  sounded  strangely,  and,  as  it  were,  out 
of  the  depths  of  space  ;  so  remote  was  all  that  per¬ 
tained  to  the  past  life  of  these  guilty  ones,  in  the  moral 
seclusion  that  had  suddenly  extended  itself  around 
them.  But  how  close,  and  ever  closer,  did  the  breath 
of  the  immeasurable  waste,  that  lay  between  them  and 
all  brotherhood  or  sisterhood,  now  press  them  one 
within  the  other ! 

44  O  friend !  ”  cried  Miriam,  so  putting  her  soul  into 
the  word  that  it  took  a  heavy  richness  of  meaning, 
and  seemed  never  to  have  been  spoken  before,  —  44  O 
friend,  are  you  conscious,  as  I  am,  of  this  companion¬ 
ship  that  knits  our  heart-strings  together  ?  ” 

44  I  feel  it,  Miriam,”  said  Donatello.  “We  draw 
one  breath  ;  we  live  one  life !  ” 

“  Only  yesterday,”  continued  Miriam  ;  44  nay,  only 
a  short  half-hour  ago,  I  shivered  in  an  icy  solitude. 
No  friendship,  no  sisterhood,  could  come  near  enough 
to  keep  the  warmth  within  my  heart.  In  an  instant, 
all  is  changed  !  There  can  be  no  more  loneliness  !  ” 

44  None,  Miriam !  ”  said  Donatello. 

44  None,  my  beautiful  one !  ”  responded  Miriam,  gaz¬ 
ing  in  his  face,  which  had  taken  a  higher,  almost  an 
heroic  aspect,  from  the  strength  of  passion.  44  None, 
my  innocent  one !  Surely,  it  is  no  crime  that  we  have 
committed.  One  wretched  and  worthless  life  has  been 
sacrificed  to  cement  two  other  lives  for  evermore.” 

64  For  evermore,  Miriam  !  ”  said  Donatello  ;  44  ce. 
mented  with  his  blood !  ” 

The  young  man  started  at  the  word  which  he  had 


THE  FAUN’S  TRANSFORMATION.  20T 


himself  spoken  ;  it  may  be  that  it  brought  home,  to 
the  simplicity  of  his  imagination,  what  he  had  not  be¬ 
fore  dreamed  of,  —  the  ever-increasing  loathsomeness 
of  a  union  that  consists  in  guilt.  Cemented  with 
blood,  which  would  corrupt  and  grow  more  noisome 
forever  and  forever,  but  bind  them  none  the  less 
strictly  for  that. 

“  Forget  it !  Cast  it  all  behind  you !  ”  said  Miriam, 
detecting,  by  her  sympathy,  the  pang  that  was  in  his 
heart.  “  The  deed  has  done  its  office,  and  has  no  ex¬ 
istence  any  more.” 

They  flung  the  past  behind  them,  as  she  counselled, 
or  else  distilled  from  it  a  fiery  intoxication,  which  suf¬ 
ficed  to  carry  them  triumphantly  through  those  first 
moments  of  their  doom.  For,  guilt  has  its  moment  of 
rapture  too.  The  foremost  result  of  a  broken  law  is 
ever  an  ecstatic  sense  of  freedom.  And  thus  there 
exhaled  upward  (out  of  their  dark  sympathy,  at  the 
base  of  which  lay  a  human  corpse)  a  bliss,  or  an  in¬ 
sanity,  which  the  unhappy  pair  imagined  to  be  well 
worth  the  sleepy  innocence  that  was  forever  lost  to 
them. 

As  their  spirits  rose  to  the  solemn  madness  of  the 
occasion,  they  went  onward,  —  not  stealthily,  not  fear¬ 
fully, —  but  with  a  stately  gait  and  aspect.  Passion 
lent  them  (as  it  does  to  meaner  shapes)  its  brief  no¬ 
bility  of  carriage.  They  trod  through  the  streets  of 
Rome,  as  if  they,  too,  were  among  the  majestic  and 
guilty  shadows,  that,  from  ages  long  gone  by,  have 
haunted  the  blood-stained  city.  And,  at  Miriam’s 
suggestion,  they  turned  aside,  for  the  sake  of  treading 
loftily  past  the  old  site  of  Pompey’s  Forum. 

“  For  there  was  a  great  deed  done  here  !  ”  she  said, 
—  “  a  deed  of  blood  like  ours  !  Who  knows,  but  we 


208 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


may  meet  the  high  and  ever-sad  fraternity  of  Caesar’s 
murderers,  and  exchange  a  salutation  ?  ” 

“  Are  they  our  brethren,  now  ?  ”  asked  Donatello. 

44  Yes  ;  all  of  them,”  said  Miriam  ;  44  and  many  an¬ 
other,  whom  the  world  little  dreams  of,  has  been  made 
our  brother  or  our  sister,  by  what  we  have  done  within 
this  hour  !  ” 

And,  at  the  thought,  she  shivered.  Where,  then,  was 
the  seclusion,  the  remoteness,  the  strange,  lonesome 
Paradise,  into  which  she  and  her  one  companion  had 
been  transported  by  their  crime  ?  Was  there,  indeed, 
no  such  refuge,  but  only  a  crowded  thoroughfare  and 
jostling  throng  of  criminals  ?  And  was  it  true,  that 
whatever  hand  had  a  blood-stain  on  it,  —  or  had  poured 
out  poison,  —  or  strangled  a  babe  at  its  birth,  —  or 
clutched  a  grandsire’s  throat,  he  sleeping,  and  robbed 
him  of  his  few  last  breaths,  —  had  now  the  right  to 
offer  itself  in  fellowship  with  their  two  hands  ?  Too 
certainly,  that  right  existed.  It  is  a  terrible  thought, 
that  an  individual  wrong-doing  melts  into  the  great 
mass  of  human  crime,  and  makes  us,  —  who  dreamed 
only  of  our  own  little  separate  sin,  —  makes  us  guilty 
of  the  whole.  And  thus  Miriam  and  her  lover  were 
not  an  insulated  pair,  but  members  of  an  innumerable 
confraternity  of  guilty  ones,  all  shuddering  at  each 
other. 

44  But  not  now ;  not  yet,”  she  murmured  to  herself. 
44  To-night,  at  least,  there  shall  be  no  remorse  !  ” 

Wandering  without  a  purpose,  it  so  chanced  that 
they  turned  into  a  street,  at  one  extremity  of  which 
stood  Hilda’s  tower.  There  was  a  light  in  her  high 
chamber  ;  a  light,  too,  at  the  Virgin’s  shrine  ;  and  the 
glimmer  of  these  two  was  the  loftiest  light  beneath 
the  stars.  Miriam  drew  Donatello’s  arm,  to  make  him 


THE  FAUN’S  TRANSFORMATION.  209 


stop,  and  while  they  stood  at  some  distance  looking  at 
Hilda’s  window,  they  beheld  her  approach  and  throw 
it  open.  She  leaned  far  forth,  and  extended  her  clasped 
hands  towards  the  sky. 

“  The  good,  pure,  child  !  She  is  praying,  Dona¬ 
tello,”  said  Miriam,  with  a  kind  of  simple  joy  at  wit¬ 
nessing  the  devoutness  of  her  friend.  Then  her  own 
sin  rushed  upon  her,  and  she  shouted,  with  the  rich 
strength  of  her  voice,  “  Pray  for  us,  Hilda ;  we  need 
it!” 

Whether  Hilda  heard  and  recognized  the  voice  we 
cannot  tell.  The  window  was  immediately  closed,  and 
her  form  disappeared  from  behind  the  snowy  curtain. 
Miriam  felt  this  to  be  a  token  that  the  cry  of  her  con¬ 
demned  spirit  was  shut  out  of  heaven. 

VOL.  VI.  • 


CHAPTER  XX. 


THE  BURIAL  CHANT. 

The  Church  of  the  Capuchins  (where,  as  the  reader 
may  remember,  some  of  our  acquaintances  had  made 
an  engagement  to  meet)  stands  a  little  aside  from  the 
Piazza  Barberini.  Thither,  at  the  hour  agreed  upon, 
on  the  morning  after  the  scenes  last  described,  Miriam 
and  Donatello  directed  their  steps.  At  no  time  are 
people  so  sedulously  careful  to  keep  their  trifling  ap¬ 
pointments,  attend  to  their  ordinary  occupations,  and 
thus  put  a  commonplace  aspect  on  life,  as  when  con¬ 
scious  of  some  secret  that  if  suspected  would  make 
them  look  monstrous  in  the  general  eye. 

Yet  how  tame  and  wearisome  is  the  impression  of 
all  ordinary  things  in  the  contrast  with  such  a  fact ! 
How  sick  and  tremulous,  the  next  morning,  is  the 
spirit  that  has  dared  so  much  only  the  night  before  ! 
How  icy  cold  is  the  heart,  when  the  fervor,  the  wild 
ecstasy  of  passion,  has  faded  away,  and  sunk  down 
among  the  dead  ashes  of  the  fire  that  blazed  so  fierce¬ 
ly,  and  was  fed  by  the  very  substance  of  its  life !  How 
faintly  does  the  criminal  stagger  onward,  lacking  the 
impulse  of  that  strong  madness  that  hurried  him  into 
guilt,  and  treacherously  deserts  him  in  the  midst  of 
it ! 

When  Miriam  and  Donatello  drew  near  the  church, 
they  found  only  Kenyon  awaiting  them  on  the  steps. 
Hilda  had  likewise  promised  to  be  of  the  party,  but 


THE  BURIAL  CHANT. 


211 


had  not  yet  appeared.  Meeting  the  sculptor,  Miriam 
put  a  force  upon  herself  and  succeeded  in  creating  an 
artificial  flow  of  spirits,  which,  to  any  but  the  nicest 
observation,  was  quite  as  effective  as  a  natural  one. 
She  spoke  sympathizingly  to  the  sculptor  on  the  sub¬ 
ject  of  Hilda’s  absence,  and  somewhat  annoyed  him 
by  alluding  in  Donatello’s  hearing  to  an  attachment 
which  had  never  been  openly  avowed,  though  perhaps 
plainly  enough  betrayed.  He  fancied  that  Miriam  did 
not  quite  recognize  the  limits  of  the  strictest  delicacy ; 
he  even  went  so  far  as  to  generalize,  and  conclude 
within  himself,  that  this  deficiency  is  a  more  general 
failing  in  woman  than  in  man,  the  highest  refinement 
being  a  masculine  attribute. 

But  the  idea  was  unjust  to  the  sex  at  large,  and  es¬ 
pecially  so  to  this  poor  Miriam,  who  was  hardly  re¬ 
sponsible  for  her  frantic  efforts  to  be  gay.  Possibly, 
moreover,  the  nice  action  of  the  mind  is  set  ajar  by  any 
violent  shock,  as  of  great  misfortune  or  great  crime,  so 
that  the  finer  perceptions  may  be  blurred  thenceforth, 
and  the  effect  be  traceable  in  all  the  minutest  conduct 
of  life. 

“  Did  you  see  anything  of  the  dear  child  after  you 
left  us  ?  ”  asked  Miriam,  still  keeping  Hilda  as  her 
topic  of  conversation.  “  I  missed  her  sadly  on  my  way 
homeward ;  for  nothing  insures  me  such  delightful  and 
innocent  dreams  (I  have  experienced  it  twenty  times) 
as  a  talk  late  in  the  evening  with  Hilda.” 

“  So  I  should  imagine,”  said  the  sculptor,  gravely ; 
“  but  it  is  an  advantage  that  I  have  little  or  no  oppor¬ 
tunity  of  enjoying.  I  know  not  what  became  of  Hilda 
after  my  parting  from  you.  She  was  not  especially 
my  companion  in  any  part  of  our  walk.  The  last  I 
saw  of  her  she  was  hastening  back  to  rejoin  you  in  the 
court-yard  of  the  Palazzo  Caffarelli.” 


212 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


“  Impossible  !  ”  cried  Miriam,  starting. 

“  Then  did  you  not  see  her  again  ?  ”  inquired  Kern 
yon,  in  some  alarm. 

“  Not  there,”  answered  Miriam,  quietly ;  “  indeed,  I 
followed  pretty  closely  on  the  heels  of  the  rest  of  the 
party.  But  do  not  be  alarmed  on  Hilda’s  account ; 
the  Virgin  is  bound  to  watch  over  the  good  child,  for 
the  sake  of  the  piety  with  which  she  keeps  the  lamp 
alight  at  her  shrine.  And,  besides,  I  have  always  felt 
that  Hilda  is  just  as  safe  in  these  evil  streets  of  Rome 
as  her  white  doves  when  they  fly  downwards  from  the 
tower-top,  and  run  to  and  fro  among  the  horses’  feet. 
There  is  certainly  a  providence  on  purpose  for  Hilda, 
if  for  no  other  human  creature.” 

“  I  religiously  believe  it,”  rejoined  the  sculptor  ; 
“  and  yet  my  mind  would  be  the  easier,  if  I  knew  that 
she  had  returned  safely  to  her  tower.” 

u  Then  make  yourself  quite  easy,”  answered  Miriam. 
“  I  saw  her  (and  it  is  the  last  sweet  sight  that  I  re¬ 
member)  leaning  from  her  window  midway  between 
earth  and  sky  !  ” 

Kenyon  now  looked  at  Donatello. 

“  You  seem  out  of  spirits,  my  dear  friend,”  he  ob¬ 
served.  “  This  languid  Roman  atmosphere  is  not  the 
airy  wine  that  you  were  accustomed  to  breathe  at 
home.  I  have  not  forgotten  your  hospitable  invita¬ 
tion  to  meet  you  this  summer  at  your  castle  among 
the  Apennines.  It  is  my  fixed  purpose  to  come,  I  as¬ 
sure  you.  We  shall  both  be  the  better  for  some  deep 
draughts  of  the  mountain-breezes.” 

u  It  may  be,”  said  Donatello,  with  unwonted  sombre¬ 
ness  ;  “  the  old  house  seemed  joyous  when  I  was  a  child. 
But  as  I  remember  it  now  it  was  a  grim  place,  too.” 

The  sculptor  looked  more  attentively  at  the  young 


THE  BURIAL  CHANT . 


213 


man,  and  was  surprised  and  alarmed  to  observe  how 
entirely  the  fine,  fresh  glow  of  animal  spirits  had  de¬ 
parted  out  of  his  face.  Hitherto,  moreover,  even  while 
he  was  standing  perfectly  still,  there  had  been  a  kind 
of  possible  gambol  indicated  in  his  aspect.  It  was 
quite  gone  now.  All  his  youthful  gayety,  and  with  it 
his  simplicity  of  manner,  was  eclipsed,  if  not  utterly 
extinct. 

“  You  are  surely  ill,  my  dear  fellow,”  exclaimed 
Kenyon. 

“  Am  I  ?  Perhaps  so,”  said  Donatello  indiffer¬ 
ently  ;  “I  never  have  been  ill,  and  know  not  what  it 
may  be.” 

“  Do  not  make  the  poor  lad  fancy-sick,”  whispered 
Miriam,  pulling  the  sculptor’s  sleeve.  “  He  is  of  a  na¬ 
ture  to  lie  down  and  die  at  once,  if  he  finds  himself 
drawing  such  melancholy  breaths  as  we  ordinary  peo¬ 
ple  are  enforced  to  burden  our  lungs  withal.  But  we 
must  get  him  away  from  this  old,  dreamy,  and  dreary 
Pome,  where  nobody  but  himself  ever  thought  of  being 
gay.  Its  influences  are  too  heavy  to  sustain  the  life  of 
such  a  creature.” 

The  above  conversation  had  passed  chiefly  on  the 
steps  of  the  Cappuccini ;  and,  having  said  so  much, 
Miriam  lifted  the  leathern  curtain  that  hangs  before 
all  church-doors  in  Italy. 

“Hilda  has  forgotten  her  appointment,”  she  ob¬ 
served,  “  or  else  her  maiden  slumbers  are  very  sound 
this  morning.  We  will  wait  for  her  no  longer.” 

They  entered  the  nave.  The  interior  of  the  church 
was  of  moderate  compass,  but  of  good  architecture, 
with  a  vaulted  roof  over  the  nave,  and  a  row  of  dusky 
chapels  on  either  side  of  it  instead  of  the  customary 
side-aisles.  Each  chapel  had  its  saintly  shrine,  hung 


214 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


round  with  offerings  ;  its  picture  above  the  altar,  al 
though  closely  veiled,  if  by  any  painter  of  renown  ; 
and  its  hallowed  tapers,  burning  continually,  to  set 
alight  the  devotion  of  the  worshippers.  The  pave¬ 
ment  of  the  nave  was  chiefly  of  marble,  and  looked 
old  and  broken,  and  was  shabbily  patched  here  and 
there  with  tiles  of  brick;  it  was  inlaid,  moreover, 
with  tombstones  of  the  mediaeval  taste,  on  which  were 
quaintly  sculptured  borders,  figures,  and  portraits  in 
bas-relief,  and  Latin  epitaphs,  now  grown  illegible  by 
the  tread  of  footsteps  over  them.  The  church  apper¬ 
tains  to  a  convent  of  Capuchin  monks ;  and,  as  usually 
happens  when  a  reverend  brotherhood  have  such  an 
edifice  in  charge,  the  floor  seemed  never  to  have  been 
scrubbed  or  swept,  and  had  as  little  the  aspect  of  sanc¬ 
tity  as  a  kennel ;  whereas,  in  all  churches  of  nunneries, 
the  maiden  sisterhood  invariably  show  the  purity  of 
their  own  hearts  by  the  virgin  cleanliness  and  visible 
consecration  of  the  walls  and  pavement. 

As  our  friends  entered  the  church,  their  eyes  rested 
at  once  on  a  remarkable  object  in  the  centre  of  the 
nave.  It  was  either  the  actual  body,  or,  as  might 
rather  have  been  supposed  at  first  glance,  the  cun¬ 
ningly  wrought  waxen  face  and  suitably  draped  figure 
of  a  dead  monk.  This  image  of  wax  or  clay-cold  real¬ 
ity,  whichever  it  might  be,  lay  on  a  slightly  elevated 
bier,  with  three  tall  candles  burning  on  each  side, 
another  tall  candle  at  the  head,  and  another  at  the 
foot.  There  was  music,  too,  in  harmony  with  so  fune¬ 
real  a  spectacle.  From  beneath  the  pavement  of  the 
church  came  the  deep,  lugubrious  strain  of  a  De  Pro - 
fundis ,  which  sounded  like  an  utterance  of  the  tomb 
itself ;  so  dismally  did  it  rumble  through  the  burial- 
vaults,  and  ooze  up  among  the  flat  gravestones  and  sad 
epitaphs,  filling  the  church  as  with  a  gloomy  mict. 


215 


THE  BURIAL  CHANT. 

44  I  must  look  mors  closely  at  that  dead  monk  before 
we  leave  the  church,”  remarked  the  sculptor.  44  In  the 
study  of  my  art,  I  have  gained  many  a  hint  from  the 
dead,  which  the  living  could  never  have  given  me.” 

“  I  can  well  imagine  it,”  answered  Miriam.  44  One 
clay  image  is  readily  copied  from  another.  But  let 
us  first  see  Guido’s  picture.  The  light  is  favorable 
now.” 

Accordingly,  they  turned  into  the  first  chapel  on  the 
right  hand,  as  you  enter  the  nave  ;  and  there  they  be¬ 
held,  —  not  the  picture,  indeed,  —  but  a  closely  drawn 
curtain.  The  churchmen  of  Italy  make  no  scruple  of 
sacrificing  the  very  purpose  for  which  a  work  of  sacred 
art  has  been  created  ;  that  of  opening  the  way  for  re¬ 
ligious  sentiment  through  the  quick  medium  of  sight, 
by  bringing  angels,  saints,  and  martyrs  down  visibly 
upon  earth  ;  of  sacrificing  this  high  purpose,  and,  for 
aught  they  know,  the  welfare  of  many  souls  along  with 
it,  to  the  hope  of  a  paltry  fee.  Every  work  by  an  art¬ 
ist  of  celebrity  is  hidden  behind  a  veil,  and  seldom  re¬ 
vealed,  except  to  Protestants,  who  scorn  it  as  an  object 
of  devotion,  and  value  it  only  for  its  artistic  merit. 

The  sacristan  was  quickly  found,  howeyer,  and  lost 
no  time  in  disclosing  the  youthful  Archangel,  setting 
his  divine  foot  on  the  head  of  his  fallen  adversary.  It 
was  an  image  of  that  greatest  of  future  events,  which 
we  hope  for  so  ardently,  —  at  least,  while  we  are  young, 
—  but  find  so  very  long  in  coming,  —  the  triumph  of 
goodness  over  the  evil  principle. 

44  Where  can  Hilda  be  ?  ”  exclaimed  Kenyon.  44  It 
is  not  her  custom  ever  to  fail  in  an  engagement ;  and 
the  present  one  was  made  entirely  on  her  account. 
Except  herself,  you  know,  W3  were  all  agreed  in  our 
recollection  of  the  picture.” 


216 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


“  But  we  were  wrong,  and  Hilda  right,  as  you  per¬ 
ceive,”  said  Miriam,  directing  his  attention  to  the  point 
on  which  their  dispute  of  the  night  before  had  arisen. 
44  It  is  not  easy  to  detect  her  astray  as  regards  any 
picture  on  which  those  clear,  soft  eyes  of  hers  have 
ever  rested.” 

44  And  she  has  studied  and  admired  few  pictures  so 
much  as  this,”  observed  the  sculptor.  44  No  wonder  ; 
for  there  is  hardly  another  so  beautiful  in  the  world. 
What  an  expression  of  heavenly  severity  in  the  Arch¬ 
angel’s  face  !  There  is  a  degree  of  pain,  trouble,  and 
disgust  at  being  brought  in  contact  with  sin,  even  for 
the  purpose  of  quelling  and  punishing  it ;  and  yet  a 
celestial  tranquillity  pervades  his  whole  being.” 

44  I  have  never  been  able,”  said  Miriam,  u  to  admire 
this  picture  nearly  so  much  as  Hilda  does,  in  its  moral 
and  intellectual  aspect.  If  it  cost  her  more  trouble  to 
be  good,  if  her  soul  were  less  white  and  pure,  she 
would  be  a  more  competent  critic  of  this  picture,  and 
would  estimate  it  not  half  so  high.  I  see  its  defects 
to-day  more  clearly  than  ever  before.” 

44  What  are  some  of  them  ?  ”  asked  Kenyon. 

44  That  Archangel,  now,”  Miriam  continued ;  44  how 
fair  he  looks,  with  his  unruffled  wings,  with  his  un¬ 
hacked  sword,  and  clad  in  his  bright  armor,  and  that 
exquisitely  fitting  sky-blue  tunic,  cut  in  the  latest  Par¬ 
adisiacal  mode  !  What  a  dainty  air  of  the  first  ce¬ 
lestial  society  !  With  what  half-scornful  delicacy  he 
sets  his  prettily  sandalled  foot  on  the  head  of  his  pros¬ 
trate  foe !  But,  is  it  thus  that  virtue  looks  the  mo¬ 
ment  after  its  death  -  struggle  with  evil  ?  No,  no ;  I 
could  have  told  Guido  better.  A  full  third  of  the 
Archangel’s  feathers  should  have  been  torn  from  his 
wings ;  the  rest  all  ruffled,  till  they  looked  like  Satan’s 


Guido’s  Saint  Michael 


THE  BURIAL  CHANT. 


217 


own !  His  sword  should  be  streaming  with  blood,  and 
perhaps  broken  half-way  to  the  hilt ;  his  armor  crushed, 
his  robes  rent,  his  breast  gory  ;  a  bleeding  gash  on  his 
brow,  cutting  right  across  the  stern  scowl  of  battle  ! 
He  should  press  his  foot  hard  down  upon  the  old 
serpent,  as  if  his  very  soul  depended  upon  it,  feeling 
him  squirm  mightily,  and  doubting  whether  the  fight 
were  half  over  yet,  and  how  the  victory  might  turn  ! 
And,  with  all  this  fierceness,  this  grimness,  this  unut¬ 
terable  horror,  there  should  still  be  something  high, 
tender,  and  holy  in  Michael’s  eyes,  and  around  his 
mouth.  But  the  battle  never  was  such  child’s  play  as 
Guido’s  dapper  Archangel  seems  to  have  found  it.” 

“  For  Heaven’s  sake,  Miriam,”  cried  Kenyon,  aston¬ 
ished  at  the  wild  energy  of  her  talk  ;  “  paint  the  pic¬ 
ture  of  man’s  struggle  against  sin  according  to  your 
own  idea !  I  think  it  will  be  a  masterpiece.” 

“  The  picture  would  have  its  share  of  truth,  I  as¬ 
sure  you,”  she  answered ;  “  but  I  am  sadly  afraid  the 
victory  would  fall  on  the  wrong  side.  Just  fancy  a 
smoke  -  blackened,  fiery -eyed  demon,  bestriding  that 
nice  young  angel,  clutching  his  white  throat  with  one 
of  his  hinder  claws  ;  and  giving  a  triumphant  whisk 
of  his  scaly  tail,  with  a  poisonous  dart  at  the  end  of 
it !  That  is  what  they  risk,  poor  souls,  who  do  battle 
with  Michael’s  enemy.” 

It  now,  perhaps,  struck  Miriam  that  her  mental  dis¬ 
quietude  was  impelling  her  to  an  undue  vivacity ;  for 
she  paused,  and  turned  away  Prom  the  picture,  without 
saying  a  word  more  about  it.  All  this  while,  more¬ 
over,  Donatello  had  been  very  ill  at  ease,  casting  awe¬ 
stricken  and  inquiring  glances  at  the  dead  monk ;  as 
if  he  could  look  nowhere  but  at  that  ghastly  object, 
merely  because  it  shocked  him.  Death  has  probably 


218  ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI, 

a  peculiar  horror  and  ugliness,  when  forced  upon  the 
contemplation  of  a  person  so  naturally  joyous  as  Do¬ 
natello,  who  lived  with  completeness  in  the  present 
moment,  and  was  able  to  form  but  vague  images  of 
the  future. 

“  What  is  the  matter,  Donatello  ?  ”  whispered  Mir¬ 
iam,  soothingly.  “  You  are  quite  in  a  tremble,  my 
poor  friend  !  What  is  it  ?  ” 

“This  awful  chant  from  beneath  the  church,”  an¬ 
swered  Donatello;  “it  oppresses  me;  the  air  is  so 
heavy  with  it  that  I  can  scarcely  draw  my  breath. 
And  yonder  dead  monk  !  I  feel  as  if  he  were  lying 
right  across  my  heart.” 

“  Take  courage  !  ”  whispered  she  again  ;  “  come,  we 
will  approach  clGse  to  the  dead  monk.  The  only  way, 
in  such  cases,  is  to  stare  the  ugly  horror  right  in  the 
face  ;  never  a  sidelong  glance,  nor  half-look,  for  those 
are  what  show  a  frightful  thing  in  its  frightfullest  as¬ 
pect.  Lean  on  me,  dearest  friend  !  My  heart  is  very 
strong  for  both  of  us.  Be  brave  ;  and  all  is  well.” 

Donatello  hung  back  for  a  moment,  but  then  pressed 
close  to  Miriam’s  side,  and  suffered  her  to  lead  him  up 
to  the  bier.  The  sculptor  followed.  A  number  of 
persons,  chiefly  women,  with  several  children  among 
them,  were  standing  about  the  corpse  ;  and  as  our 
three  friends  drew  nigh,  a  mother  knelt  down,  and 
caused  her  little  boy  to  kneel,  both  kissing  the  beads 
and  crucifix  that  hung  from  the  monk’s  girdle.  Pos¬ 
sibly  he  had  died  in  the  odor  of  sanctity ;  or,  at  all 
events,  death  and  his  brown  frock  and  cowl  made  a 
sacred  image  of  this  reverend  father. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 


THE  DEAD  CAPUCHIN. 

The  dead  monk  was  clad,  as  when  alive,  in  the 
brown  woollen  frock  of  the  Capuchins,  with  the  hood 
drawn  over  his  head,  but  so  as  to  leave  the  features 
and  a  portion  of  the  beard  uncovered.  His  rosary  and 
cross  hung  at  his  side ;  his  hands  were  folded  over  his 
breast ;  his  feet  (he  was  of  a  barefooted  order  in  his 
lifetime,  and  continued  so  in  death)  protruded  from 
beneath  his  habit,  stiff  and  stark,  with  a  more  waxen 
look  than  even  his  face.  They  were  tied  together  at 
the  ankles  with  a  black  ribbon. 

The  countenance,  as  we  have  already  said,  was  fully 
displayed.  It  had  a  purplish  hue  upon  it,  unlike  the 
paleness  of  an  ordinary  corpse,  but  as  little  resembling 
the  flush  of  natural  life.  The  eyelids  were  but  par¬ 
tially  drawn  down,  and  showed  the  eyeballs  beneath  ; 
as  if  the  deceased  friar  were  stealing  a  glimpse  at 
the  by-standers,  to  watch  whether  they  were  duly  im¬ 
pressed  with  the  solemnity  of  his  obsequies.  The 
shaggy  eyebrows  gave  sternness  to  the  look. 

Miriam  passed  between  two  of  the  lighted  candles, 
and  stood  close  beside  the  bier. 

“  My  God  !  ”  murmured  she.  “  What  is  this  ?  ” 

She  grasped  Donatello’s  hand,  and,  at  the  same  in¬ 
stant,  felt  him  give  a  convulsive  shudder,  which  she 
knew  to  have  been  caused  by  a  sudden  and  terrible 
throb  of  the  heart.  His  hand,  by  an  instantaneous 


220 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


change,  became  like  ice  within  hers,  which  likewise 
grew  so  icy,  that  their  insensible  lingers  might  have 
rattled,  one  against  the  other.  No  wonder  that  their 
blood  curdled  ;  no  wonder  that  their  hearts  leaped  and 
paused  !  The  dead  face  of  the  monk,  gazing  at  them 
beneath  its  half-closed  eyelids,  was  the  same  visage 
that  had  glared  upon  their  naked  souls,  the  past  mid¬ 
night,  as  Donatello  flung  him  over  the  precipice. 

The  sculptor  was  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  bier, 
and  had  not  yet  seen  the  monk’s  features. 

“  Those  naked  feet !  ”  said  he.  u  I  know  not  why, 
but  they  affect  me  strangely.  They  have  walked  to 
and  fro  over  the  hard  pavements  of  Rome,  and  through 
a  hundred  other  rough  ways  of  this  life,  where  the 
monk  went  begging  for  his  brotherhood  ;  along  the 
cloisters  and  dreary  corridors  of  his  convent,  too,  from 
his  youth  upward !  It  is  a  suggestive  idea,  to  track 
those  worn  feet  backward  through  all  the  paths  they 
have  trodden,  ever  since  they  were  the  tender  and  rosy 
little  feet  of  a  baby,  and  (cold  as  they  now  are)  were 
kept  warm  in  his  mother’s  hand.” 

As  his  companions,  whom  the  sculptor  supposed  to 
be  close  by  him,  made  no  response  to  his  fanciful 
musing,  he  looked  up,  and  saw  them  at  the  head  of 
the  bier.  He  advanced  thither  himself. 

“Ha  !  ”  exclaimed  he. 

He  cast  a  horror-stricken  and  bewildered  glance  at 
Miriam,  but  withdrew  it  immediately.  Not  that  he 
had  any  definite  suspicion,  or,  it  may  be,  even  a  re¬ 
mote  idea,  that  she  could  be  held  responsible*  in  the 
least  degree,  for  this  man’s  sudden  death.  In  truth, 
it  seemed  too  wild  a  thought  to  connect,  in  reality, 
Miriam’s  persecutor  of  many  past  months  and  the 
vagabond  of  the  preceding  night,  with  the  dead  Cap- 


THE  DEAD  CAPUCHIN. 


221 


uchin  of  to-day.  It  resembled  one  of  those  unac¬ 
countable  changes  and  interminglings  of  identity, 
which  so  often  occur  among  the  personages  of  a 
dream.  But  Kenyon,  as  befitted  the  professor  of 
an  imaginative  art,  was  endowed  with  an  exceedingly 
quick  sensibility,  which  was  apt  to  give  him  intima¬ 
tions  of  the  true  state  of  matters  that  lay  beyond  his 
actual  vision.  There  was  a  whisper  in  his  ear;  it 
said,  “  Hush  !  ”  Without  asking  himself  wherefore, 
he  resolved  to  be  silent  as  regarded  the  mysterious 
discovery  which  he  had  made,  and  to  leave  any  re¬ 
mark  or  exclamation  to  be  voluntarily  offered  by  Mir¬ 
iam.  If  she  never  spoke,  then  let  the  riddle  be  un¬ 
solved. 

And  now  occurred  a  circumstance  that  would  seem 
too  fantastic  to  be  told,  if  it  had  not  actually  hap¬ 
pened,  precisely  as  we  set  it  down.  As  the  three 
friends  stood  by  the  bier,  they  saw  that  a  little  stream 
of  blood  had  begun  to  ooze  from  the  dead  monk’s 
nostrils  ;  it  crept  slowly  towards  the  thicket  of  his 
beard,  where,  in  the  course  of  a  moment  or  two,  ifc  hid 
itself. 

“  How  strange !  ”  ejaculated  Kenyon.  “  The  monk 
died  of  apoplexy,  I  suppose,  or  by  some  sudden  acci¬ 
dent,  and  the  blood  has  not  yet  congealed.” 

“  Do  you  consider  that  a  sufficient  explanation  ?  ” 
asked  Miriam,  with  a  smile  from  which  the  sculptor 
involuntarily  turned  away  his  eyes.  “Does  it  satisfy 
you?” 

“  And  why  not  ?  ”  he  inquired. 

“  Of  course,  you  know  the  old  superstition  about 
this  phenomenon  of  blood  flowing  from  a  dead  body,” 
she  rejoined.  “  How  can  we  tell  but  that  the  mur¬ 
derer  of  this  monk  (or,  possibly,  it  may  be  only  that 


222 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


privileged  murderer,  his  physician)  may  have  just  en¬ 
tered  the  church?  ” 

“  I  cannot  jest  about  it,”  said  Kenyon.  “  It  is  an 
ugly  sight!  ” 

“  True,  true ;  horrible  to  see,  or  dream  of  !  ”  she  re- 
plied,  with  one  of  those  long,  tremulous  sighs,  which 
so  often  betray  a  sick  heart  by  escaping  unexpectedly. 
“We  will  not  look  at  it  any  more.  Come  away,  Do¬ 
natello.  Let  us  escape  from  this  dismal  church.  The 
sunshine  will  do  you  good.” 

When  had  ever  a  woman  such  a  trial  to  sustain  as 
this !  By  no  possible  supposition  could  Miriam  ex¬ 
plain  the  identity  of  the  dead  Capuchin,  quietly  and 
decorously  laid  out  in  the  nave  of  his  convent  church, 
with  that  of  her  murdered  persecutor,  flung  heedlessly 
at  the  foot  of  the  precipice.  The  effect  upon  her  im¬ 
agination  \^as  as  if  a  strange  and  unknown  corpse  had 
miraculously,  while  she  was  gazing  at  it,  assumed  the 
likeness  of  that  face,  so  terrible  henceforth  in  her  re¬ 
membrance.  It  was  a  symbol,  perhaps,  of  the  deadly 
iteration  with  which  she  was  doomed  to  behold  the 
image  of  her  crime  reflected  back  upon  her  in  a  thou¬ 
sand  ways,  and  converting  the  great,  calm  face  of  Na¬ 
ture,  in  the  whole,  and  in  its  innumerable  details,  into 
a  manifold  reminiscence  of  that  one  dead  visage. 

No  sooner  had  Miriam  turned  away  from  the  bier, 
and  gone  a  few  steps,  than  she  fancied  the  likeness 
altogether  an  illusion,  which  would  vanish  at  a  closer 
and  colder  view.  She  must  look  at  it  again,  there¬ 
fore,  and  at  once ;  or  else  the  grave  would  close  over 
the  face,  and  leave  the  awful  fantasy  that  had  con¬ 
nected  itself  therewith  fixed  ineffaceably  in  her  brain. 

“  Wait  for  me,  one  moment !  ”  she  said  to  her  com¬ 
panions.  “  Only  a  moment !  ” 


THE  DEAD  CAPUCHIN. 


223 


So  she  went  back,  and  gazed  once  more  at  the 
corpse.  Yes ;  these  were  the  features  that  Miriam 
had  known  so  well ;  this  was  the  visage  that  she  re¬ 
membered  from  a  far  longer  date  than  the  most  inti¬ 
mate  of  her  friends  suspected ;  this  form  of  clay  had 
held  the  evil  spirit  which  blasted  her  sweet  youth, 
and  compelled  her,  as  it  were,  to  stain  her  womanhood 
with  crime.  But,  whether  it  were  the  majesty  of 
death,  or  something  originally  noble  and  lofty  in  the 
character  of  the  dead,  which  the  soul  had  stamped 
upon  the  features,  as  it  left  them  ;  so  it  was  that  Mir¬ 
iam  now  quailed  and  shook,  not  for  the  vulgar  horror 
of  the  spectacle,  but  for  the  severe,  reproachful  glance 
that  seemed  to  come  from  between  those  half-closed 
lids.  True,  there  had  been  nothing,  in  his  lifetime, 
viler  than  this  man.  She  knew  it ;  there  was  no  other 
fact  within  her  consciousness  that  she  felt  to  be  so 
certain ;  and  yet,  because  her  persecutor  found  him¬ 
self  safe  and  irrefutable  in  death,  he  frowned  upon  his 
victim,  and  threw  back  the  blame  on  her  ! 

“  Is  it  thou,  indeed  ?  ”  she  murmured,  under  her 
breath.  “Then  thou  hast  no  right  to  scowl  upon  me 
so  !  But  art  thou  real,  or  a  vision  ?  ” 

She  bent  down  over  the  dead  monk,  till  one  of  her 
rich  curls  brushed  against  his  forehead.  She  touched 
one  of  his  folded  hands  with  her  fins-er. 

“  It  is  he,”  said  Miriam.  “  There  is  the  scar,  that 
1  know  so  well,  on  his  brow.  And  it  is  no  vision  ;  he 
is  palpable  to  my  touch !  I  will  question  the  fact  no 
longer,  but  deal  with  it  as  I  best  can.” 

It  was  wonderful  to  see  how  the  crisis  developed  in 
Miriam  its  own  proper  strength,  and  the  faculty  of 
sustaining  the  demands  which  it  made  upon  her  forti¬ 
tude.  She  ceased  to  tremble;  the  beautiful  woman 


224 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI . 


gazed  sternly  at  her  dead  enemy,  endeavoring  to  meet 
and  quell  the  look  of  accusation  that  he  threw  from 
between  his  half-closed  eyelids. 

“No;  thou  shalt  not  scowl  me  down!”  said  she. 
“Neither  now,  nor  when  we  stand  together  at  the 
judgment-seat.  I  fear  not  to  meet  thee  there.  Fare¬ 
well,  till  that  next  encounter !  ” 

Haughtily  waving  her  hand,  Miriam  rejoined  her 
friends,  who  were  awaiting  her  at  the  door  of  the 
church.  As  they  went  out,  the  sacristan  stopped  them, 
and  proposed  to  show  the  cemetery  of  the  convent, 
where  the  deceased  members  of  the  fraternity  are  laid 
to  rest  in  sacred  earth,  brought  long  ago  from  Jeru¬ 
salem. 

44  And  will  yonder  monk  be  buried  there  ?  ”  she 
asked. 

44  Brother  Antonio  ?  ”  exclaimed  the  sacristan. 
44  Surely,  our  good  brother  will  be  put  to  bed  there ! 
His  grave  is  already  dug,  and  the  last  occupant  has 
made  room  for  him.  Will  you  look  at  it,  signorina?  ” 

44  I  will !  ”  said  Miriam. 

44  Then  excuse  me,”  observed  Kenyon  ;  44  for  I  shall 
leave  you.  One  dead  monk  has  more  than  sufficed 
me ;  and  I  am  not  bold  enough  to  face  the  whole  mor¬ 
tality  of  the  convent.” 

It  was  easy  to  see,  by  Donatello’s  looks,  that  he,  as 
well  as  the  sculptor,  would  gladty  have  escaped  a  visit 
to  the  famous  cemetery  of  the  Cappuccini.  But  Mir¬ 
iam’s  nerves  were  strained  to  such  a  pitch,  that  she 
anticipated  a  certain  solace  and  absolute  relief  in  pass¬ 
ing  from  one  ghastly  spectacle  to  another  of  long-ac¬ 
cumulated  ugliness ;  and  there  was,  besides,  a  singu¬ 
lar  sense  of  duty  which  impelled  her  to  look  at  the 
final  resting-place  of  the  being  whose  fate  had  been  so 


THE  DEAD  CAPUCHIN. 


225 


disastrously  involved  with  her  own.  She  therefore 
followed  the  sacristan’s  guidance,  and  drew  her  com¬ 
panion  along  with  her,  whispering  encouragement  as 
they  went. 

The  cemetery  is  beneath  the  church,  but  entirely 
above  ground,  and  lighted  by  a  row  of  iron-grated 
windows  without  glass.  A  corridor  runs  along  be¬ 
side  these  windows,  and  gives  access  to  three  or  four 
vaulted  recesses,  or  chapels,  of  considerable  breadth 
and  height,  the  floor  of  which  consists  of  the  conse¬ 
crated  earth  of  Jerusalem.  It  is  smoothed  decorously 
over  the  deceased  brethren  of  the  convent,  and  is  kept 
quite  free  from  grass  or  weeds,  such  as  would  grow 
even  in  these  gloomy  recesses,  if  pains  were  not  be¬ 
stowed  to  root  them  up.  But,  as  the  cemetery  is  small, 
and  it  is  a  precious  privilege  to  sleep  in  holy  ground, 
the  brotherhood  are  immemorially  accustomed,  when 
one  of  their  number  dies,  to  take  the  longest  -  buried 
skeleton  out  of  the  oldest  grave,  and  lay  the  new  slum- 
berer  there  instead.  Thus,  each  of  the  good  friars,  in 
his  turn,  enjoys  the  luxury  of  a  consecrated  bed,  at¬ 
tended  with  the  slight  drawback  of  being  forced  to  get 
up  long  before  daybreak,  as  it  were,  and  make  room 
for  another  lodger. 

The  arrangement  of  the  unearthed  skeletons  is  what 
makes  the  special  interest  of  the  cemetery.  The  arched 
and  vaulted  walls  of  the  burial  recesses  are  supported 
by  massive  pillars  and  pilasters  made  of  thigh-bones 
and  skulls ;  the  whole  material  of  the  structure  ap¬ 
pears  to  be  of  a  similar  kind  :  and  the  knobs  and 
embossed  ornaments  of  this  strange  architecture  are 
represented  by  the  joints  of  the  spine,  and  the  more 
delicate  tracery  by  the  smaller  bones  of  the  human 
frame.  The  summits  of  the  arches  are  adorned  with 


VOL.  VI. 


226 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENT. 


entire  skeletons,  looking  as  if  they  were  wrought  most 
skilfully  in  bas-relief.  There  is  no  possibility  of  de¬ 
scribing  how  ugly  and  grotesque  is  the  effect,  com¬ 
bined  with  a  certain  artistic  merit,  nor  how  much  per¬ 
verted  ingenuity  has  been  shown  in  this  queer  way, 
nor  what  a  multitude  of  dead  monks,  through  how 
many  hundred  years,  must  have  contributed  their  bony 
framework  to  build  up  these  great  arches  of  mortality, 
On  some  of  the  skulls  there  are  inscriptions,  purport¬ 
ing  that  such  a  monk,  who  formerly  made  use  of  that 
particular  headpiece,  died  on  such  a  day  and  year  ; 
but  vastly  the  greater  number  are  piled  up  indistin- 
guishably  into  the  architectural  design,  like  the  many 
deaths  that  make  up  the  one  glory  of  a  victory. 

In  the  side  walls  of  the  vaults  are  niches  where 
skeleton  monks  sit  or  stand,  clad  in  the  brown  habits 
that  they  wore  in  life,  and  labelled  with  their  names 
and  the  dates  of  their  decease.  Their  skulls  (some 
quite  bare,  and  others  still  covered  with  yellow  skin, 
and  hair  that  has  known  the  earth-damps)  look  out 
from  beneath  their  hoods,  grinning  hideously  repul¬ 
sive.  One  reverend  father  has  his  mouth  wide  open, 
as  if  he  had  died  in  the  midst  of  a  howl  of  terror  and 
remorse,  which  perhaps  is  even  now  screeching  through 
eternity.  As  a  general  thing,  however,  these  frocked 
and  hooded  skeletons  seem  to  take  a  more  cheerful 
view  of  their  position,  and  try  with  ghastly  smiles  to 
turn  it  into  a  jest.  But  the  cemetery  of  the  Capu¬ 
chins  is  no  place  to  nourish  celestial  hopes :  the  soul 
sinks  forlorn  and  wretched  under  all  this  burden  of 
dusty  death  ;  the  holy  earth  from  Jerusalem,  so  im¬ 
bued  is  it  with  mortality,  has  grown  as  barren  of  the 
flowers  of  Paradise  as  it  is  of  earthly  weeds  and  grass. 
Thank  Heaven  for  its  blue  sky ;  it  needs  a  long,  up- 


THE  DEAD  CAPUCHIN. 


227 


ward  gaze  to  give  us  back  our  faith.  Not  here  can 
we  feel  ourselves  immortal,  where  the  very  altars  in 
these  chapels  of  horrible  consecration  are  heaps  of  hu¬ 
man  bones. 

Yet  let  us  give  the  cemetery  the  praise  that  it  de¬ 
serves.  There  is  no  disagreeable  scent,  such  as  might 
have  been  expected  from  the  decay  of  so  many  holy 
persons,  in  whatever  odor  of  sanctity  they  may  have 
taken  their  departure.  The  same  number  of  living 
monks  would  not  smell  half  so  unexceptionably. 

Miriam  went  gloomily  along  the  corridor,  from  one 
vaulted  Golgotha  to  another,  until  in  the  farthest  re¬ 
cess  she  beheld  an  open  grave. 

“  Is  that  for  him  who  lies  yonder  in  the  nave  ?  ”  she 
asked. 

“  Yes,  signorina,  this  is  to  be  the  resting-place  of 
Brother  Antonio,  who  came  to  his  death  last  night,” 
answered  the  sacristan  ;  “  and  in  yonder  niche,  you 
see,  sits  a  brother  who  was  buried  thirty  years  ago, 
and  has  risen  to  give  him  place.” 

“  It  is  not  a  satisfactory  idea,”  observed  Miriam, 
“that  you  poor  friars  cannot  call  even  your  graves 
permanently  your  own.  You  must  lie  down  in  them, 
metliinks,  with  a  nervous  anticipation  of  being  dis¬ 
turbed,  like  weary  men  who  know  that  they  shall  be 
summoned  out  of  bed  at  midnight.  Is  it  not  possible 
(if  money  were  to  be  paid  for  the  privilege)  to  leave 
Brother  Antonio  —  if  that  be  his  name  —  in  the  oc¬ 
cupancy  of  that  narrow  grave  till  the  last  trumpet 
sounds?” 

“  By  no  means,  signorina ;  neither  is  it  needful  or 
desirable,”  answered  the  sacristan.  “  A  quarter  of  a 
century’s  sleep  in  the  sweet  earth  of  Jerusalem  is 
better  than  a  thousand  years  in  any  other  soil.  Our 


228 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


brethren  find  good  rest  there.  No  ghost  was  ever 
known  to  steal  out  of  this  blessed  cemetery.” 

“That  is  well,”  responded  Miriam;  “may  he  whom 
you  now  lay  to  sleep  prove  no  exception  to  the  rule !  ” 

As  they  left  the  cemetery  she  put  money  into  the 
sacristan’s  hand  to  an  amount  that  made  his  eyes  open 
wide  and  glisten,  and  requested  that  it  might  be  ex¬ 
pended  in  masses  for  the  repose  of  Father  Antonio’s 
souL 


CHAPTER  XXII. 


THE  MEDICI  GARDENS. 

“  Donatello,”  said  Miriam,  anxiously,  as  they 
came  through  the  Piazza  Barberini,  “what  can  I  do 
for  you,  my  beloved  friend  ?  You  are  shaking  as  with 
the  cold  fit  of  the  Roman  fever.” 

“  Yes,”  said  Donatello ;  “  my  heart  shivers.” 

As  soon  as  she  could  collect  her  thoughts,  Miriam 
led  the  young  man  to  the  gardens  of  the  Villa  Medici, 
hoping  that  the  quiet  shade  and  sunshine  of  that  de¬ 
lightful  retreat  would  a  little  revive  his  spirits.  The 
grounds  are  there  laid  out  in  the  old  fashion  of  straight 
paths,  with  borders  of  box,  which  form  hedges  of  great 
height  and  density,  and  are  shorn  and  trimmed  to 
the  evenness  of  a  wall  of  stone,  at  the  top  and  sides. 
There  are  green  alleys,  with  long  vistas  overshadowed 
by  ilex-trees ;  and  at  each  intersection  of  the  paths, 
the  visitor  finds  seats  of  lichen-covered  stone  to  repose 
upon,  and  marble  statues  that  look  forlornly  at  him, 
regretful  of  their  lost  noses.  In  the  more  open  por¬ 
tions  of  the  garden,  before  the  sculptured  front  of  the 
villa,  you  see  fountains  and  flower-beds,  and,  in  their 
season,  a  profusion  of  roses,  from  which  the  genial  sun 
of  Italy  distils  a  fragrance,  to  be  scattered  abroad  by 
the  no  less  genial  breeze. 

But  Donatello  drew  no  delight  from  these  things. 
He  walked  onward  in  silent  apathy,  and  looked  at 
Miiiam  with  strangely  half-awakened  and  bewildered 


230 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


eyes,  when  she  sought  to  bring  his  mind  into  sym¬ 
pathy  with  hers,  and  so  relieve  his  heart  of  the  burden 
that  lay  lnmpishly  upon  it. 

She  made  him  sit  down  on  a  stone  bench,  where 
two  embowered  alleys  crossed  each  other ;  so  that  they 
could  discern  the  approach  of  any  casual  intruder  a 
long  way  down  the  path. 

44  My  sweet  friend,”  she  said,  taking  one  of  his  pas¬ 
sive  hands  in  both  of  hers, 44  what  can  I  sav  to  comfort 
you?” 

44  Nothing !  ”  replied  Donatello,  with  sombre  reserve. 
44  Nothing  will  ever  comfort  me.” 

44 1  accept  my  own  misery,”  continued  Miriam,  44  my 
own  guilt,  if  guilt  it  be  ;  and,  whether  guilt  or  misery, 
I  shall  know  how  to  deal  with  it.  But  you,  dearest 
friend,  that  were  the  rarest  creature  in  all  this  world, 
and  seemed  a  being  to  whom  sorrow  could  not  cling, 
—  you,  whom  I  half  fancied  to  belong  to  a  race  that 
had  vanished  forever,  you  only  surviving,  to  show 
mankind  how  genial  and  how  joyous  life  used  to  be, 
in  some  long -gone  age,  —  what  had  you  to  do  with 
grief  or  crime  ?  ” 

44  They  came  to  me  as  to  other  men,”  said  Donatello, 
broodingly.  44  Doubtless  I  was  born  to  them.” 

44  No,  no  ;  they  came  with  me,”  replied  Miriam. 
44  Mine  is  the  responsibility  !  Alas  !  wherefore  was  I 
born  ?  Why  did  we  ever  meet  ?  Why  did  I  not  drive 
you  from  me,  knowing  —  for  my  heart  foreboded  it  — 
that  the  cloud  in  which  I  walked  would  likewise  en¬ 
velop  you  !  ” 

Donatello  stirred  uneasily,  with  the  irritable  impa¬ 
tience  that  is  often  combined  with  a  mood  of  leaden 
despondency.  A  brown  lizard  with  two  tails  —  a 
monster  often  engendered  by  the  Roman  sunshine  — 


THE  MEDICI  GARDENS. 


281 


ran  across  his  foot,  and  made  him  start.  Then  he  sat 
silent  awhile,  and  so  did  Miriam,  trying  to  dissolve 
her  whole  heart  into  sympathy,  and  lavish  it  all  upon 
him,  were  it  only  for  a  moment’s  cordial. 

The  young  man  lifted  his  hand  to  his  breast,  and, 
unintentionally,  as  Miriam’s  hand  was  within  his,  he 
lifted  that  along  with  it. 

“  I  have  a  great  weight  here  !  ”  said  he. 

The  fancy  struck  Miriam  (but  she  drove  it  reso¬ 
lutely  down)  that  Donatello  almost  imperceptibly 
shuddered,  while,  in  pressing  his  own  hand  against 
his  heart,  he  pressed  hers  there  too. 

“  Rest  your  heart  on  me,  dearest  one  !  ”  she  resumed. 
“  Let  me  bear  all  its  weight ;  I  am  well  able  to  bear 
it ;  for  I  am  a  woman,  and  I  love  you  !  I  love  you, 
Donatello  !  Is  there  no  comfort  for  you  in  this 
avowal  ?  Look  at  me  !  Heretofore,  you  have  found 
me  pleasant  to  your  sight.  Gaze  into  my  eyes  !  Gaze 
into  my  soul !  Search  as  deeply  as  you  may,  you  can 
never  see  half  the  tenderness  and  devotion  that  I 
henceforth  cherish  for  you.  All  that  I  ask  is  your 
acceptance  of  the  utter  self-sacrifice  (but  it  shall  be 
no  sacrifice,  to  my  great  love)  with  which  I  seek  to 
remedy  the  evil  you  have  incurred  for  my  sake !  ” 

All  this  fervor  on  Miriam’s  part ;  on  Donatello’s,  a 
heavy  silence. 

“  Oh,  speak  to  me !  ”  she  exclaimed.  “  Only  promise 
me  to  be,  by  and  by,  a  little  happy !  ” 

“  Happy  ?  ”  murmured  Donatello.  “  Ah,  never 
again  !  never  again  !  ” 

“  Never  ?  Ah,  that  is  a  terrible  word  to  say  to  me  !  ” 
answered  Miriam.  “  A  terrible  word  to  let  fall  upon 
a  woman’s  heart,  when  she  loves  you,  and  is  conscious 
of  having  caused  your  misery  !  If  you  love  me,  Dona- 


232 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENT. 


tello,  speak  it  not  again.  And  surely  you  did  love 
me  ?  ” 

“  I  did,”  replied  Donatello,  gloomily  and  absently. 

Miriam  released  the  young  man’s  hand,  but  suffered 
one  of  her  own  to  lie  close  to  his,  and  waited  a  moment 
to  see  whether  he  would  make  any  effort  to  retain  it. 
There  was  much  depending  upon  that  simple  experi 
ment. 

With  a  deep  sigh — as  when,  sometimes,  a  slum- 
berer  turns  over  in  a  troubled  dream  —  Donatello 
changed  his  position,  and  clasped  both  his  hands  over 
his  forehead.  The  genial  warmth  of  a  Roman  April 
kindling  into  May  was  in  the  atmosphere  around 
them  ;  but  when  Miriam  saw  that  involuntary  move¬ 
ment  and  heard  that  sigh  of  relief  (for  so  she  inter¬ 
preted  it),  a  shiver  ran  through  her  frame,  as  if  the 
iciest  wind  of  the  Apennines  were  blowing  over  her. 

“  He  has  done  himself  a  greater  wrong  than  I 
dreamed  of,”  thought  she,  with  unutterable  compas¬ 
sion.  “  Alas  !  it  was  a  sad  mistake  !  He  might  have 
had  a  kind  of  bliss  in  the  consequences  of  this  deed, 
had  he  been  impelled  to  it  by  a  love  vital  enough  to 
survive  the  frenzy  of  that  terrible  moment, — mighty 
enough  to  make  its  own  law,  and  justify  itself  against 
the  natural  remorse.  But  to  have  perpetrated  a  dread¬ 
ful  murder  (and  such  was  his  crime,  unless  love,  an¬ 
nihilating  moral  distinctions,  made  it  otherwise)  on  no 
better  warrant  than  a  boy’s  idle  fantasy  !  I  pity  him 
from  the  very  depths  of  my  soul !  As  for  myself,  I 
am  past  my  own  or  other’s  pity.” 

She  arose  from  the  young  man’s  side,  and  stood  be¬ 
fore  him  with  a  sad,  commiserating  aspect ;  it  was  the 
look  of  a  ruined  soul,  bewailing,  in  him,  a  grief  less 
than  what  her  profotmder  sympathies  imposed  upon 
herself. 


THE  MEDICI  GARDENS. 


233 


“  Donatello,  we  must  part,”  she  said,  with  melan¬ 
choly  firmness.  “  Yes  ;  leave  me  !  Go  back  to  your 
old  tower,  which  overlooks  the  green  valley  you  have 
told  me  of  among  the  Apennines.  Then,  all  that  has 
passed  will  be  recognized  as  but  an  ugly  dream.  For, 
in  dreams,  the  conscience  sleeps,  and  we  often  stain 
ourselves  with  guilt  of  which  we  should  be  incapable 
in  our  waking  moments.  The  deed  you  seemed  to  do, 
last  night,  was  no  more  than  such  a  dream  ;  there  was 
as  little  substance  in  what  you  fancied  yourself  doing. 
Go  ;  and  forget  it  all !  ” 

“  Ah,  that  terrible  face  !  ”  said  Donatello,  pressing 
his  hands  over  his  eyes.  “  Do  you  call  that  unreal  ?  ” 

“  Yes  ;  for  you  beheld  it  with  dreaming  eyes,”  re¬ 
plied  Miriam.  “  It  was  unreal ;  and,  that  you  may 
feel  it  so,  it  is  requisite  that  you  see  this  face  of  mine 
no  more.  Once,  you  may  have  thought  it  beauti¬ 
ful  ;  now,  it  has  lost  its  charm.  Yet  it  would  still  re¬ 
tain  a  miserable  potency  to  bring  back  the  past  illu¬ 
sion,  and,  in  its  train,  the  remorse  and  anguish  that 
would  darken  all  your  life.  Leave  me,  therefore,  and 
forget  me.” 

“  Forget  you,  Miriam  !  ”  said  Donatello,  roused 
somewhat  from  his  apathy  of  despair.  “  If  I  could  re¬ 
member  you,  and  behold  you,  apart  from  that  fright¬ 
ful  visage  which  stares  at  me  over  your  shoulder,  that 
were  a  consolation,  at  least,  if  not  a  joy.” 

“  But  since  that  visage  haunts  you  along  with  mine,” 
rejoined  Miriam,  glancing  behind  her,  “  we  needs  must 
part.  Farewell,  then  !  But  if  ever  —  in  distress,  peril, 
shame,  poverty,  or  whatever  anguish  is  most  poignant, 
whatever  burden  heaviest  —  you  should  require  a  life 
to  be  given  wholly,  only  to  make  your  own  a  little 
easier,  then  summon  me !  As  the  case  now  stands 


234 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


between  us,  you  have  bought  me  dear,  and  find  me 
of  little  worth.  Fling  me  away,  therefore  !  May  you 
never  need  me  more !  But,  if  otherwise,  a  wish  — 
almost  an  unuttered  wish  —  will  bring  me  to  you  !  ” 

She  stood  a  moment,  expecting  a  reply.  But  Do¬ 
natello’s  eyes  had  again  fallen  on  the  ground,  and  he 
had  not,  in  his  bewildered  mind  and  overburdened 
heart,  a  word  to  respond. 

“  That  hour  I  speak  of  may  never  come,”  said  Mir¬ 
iam.  “  So  farewell,  — farewell  forever.” 

“  Farewell,”  said  Donatello. 

His  voice  hardly  made  its  way  through  the  environ¬ 
ment  of  unaccustomed  thoughts  and  emotions  which 
had  settled  over  him  like  a  dense  and  dark  cloud. 
Not  improbably,  he  beheld  Miriam  through  so  dim  a 
medium  that  she  looked  visionary  ;  heard  her  speak 
only  in  a  thin,  faint  echo. 

She  turned  from  the  young  man,  and,  much  as  her 
heart  yearned  towards  him,  she  would  not  profane 
that  heavy  parting  by  an  embrace,  or  even  a  pressure 
of  the  hand.  So  soon  after  the  semblance  of  such 
mighty  love,  and  after  it  had  been  the  impulse  to  so 
terrible  a  deed,  they  parted,  in  all  outward  show,  as 
coldly  as  people  part  whose  whole  mutual  intercourse 
has  been  encircled  within  a  single  hour. 

And  Donatello,  when  Miriam  had  departed,  stretched 
himself  at  full  length  on  the  stone  bench,  and  drew 
his  hat  over  his  eyes,  as  the  idle  and  light-hearted 
youths  of  dreamy  Italy  are  accustomed  to  do,  when 
they  lie  down  in  the  first  convenient  shade,  and  snatch 
a  noonday  slumber.  A  stupor  was  upon  him,  which 
he  mistook  for  such  drowsiness  as  he  had  known  in 
his  innocent  past  life.  But,  by  and  by,  he  raised  him¬ 
self  slowly  and  left  the  garden.  Sometimes  poor  Do* 


THE  MEDICI  GARDENS. 


235 


natello  started,  as  if  he  heard  a  shriek  ;  sometimes  he 
shrank  back,  as  if  a  face,  fearful  to  behold,  were  thrust 
close  to  his  own.  In  this  dismal  mood,  bewildered 
with  the  novelty  of  sin  and  grief,  he  had  little  left  of 
that  singular  resemblance,  on  account  of  which,  and 
for  their  sport,  his  three  friends  had  fantastically  rec¬ 
ognized  him  as  the  veritable  Faun  of  Praxiteles. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 


MIRIAM  AND  HILDA 

On  leaving  the  Medici  Gardens  Miriam  felt  herself 
astray  in  the  world  ;  and  having  no  special  reason  to 
seek  one  place  more  than  another,  she  suffered  chance 
to  direct  her  steps  as  it  would.  Thus  it  happened, 
that,  involving  herself  in  the  crookedness  of  Rome, 
she  saw  Hilda’s  tower  rising  before  her,  and  was  put 
in  mind  to  climb  to  the  young  girl’s  eyry,  and  ask 
why  she  had  broken  her  engagement  at  the  church  of 
the  Capuchins.  People  often  do  the  idlest  acts  of 
their  lifetime  in  their  heaviest  and  most  anxious  mo¬ 
ments  ;  so  that  it  would  have  been  no  wonder  had 
Miriam  been  impelled  only  by  so  slight  a  motive  of 
curiosity  as  we  have  indicated.  But  she  remembered, 
too,  and  with  a  quaking  heart,  what  the  sculptor  had 
mentioned  of  Hilda’s  retracing  her  steps  towards  the 
court-yard  of  the  Palazzo  Caffarelli  in  quest  of  Miriam 
herself.  Had  she  been  compelled  to  choose  between 
infamy  in  the  eyes  of  the  whole  world,  or  in  Hilda’s 
eyes  alone,  she  would  unhesitatingly  have  accepted  the 
former,  on  condition  of  remaining  spotless  in  the  esti¬ 
mation  of  her  white  -  souled  friend.  This  possibility, 
therefore,  that  Hilda  had  witnessed  the  scene  of  the 
past  night,  was  unquestionably  the  cause  that  drew 
Miriam  to  the  tower,  and  made  her  linger  and  falter 
as  she  approached  it. 

As  she  drew  near,  there  were  tokens  to  which  her 


MIRIAM  AND  HILDA. 


237 


disturbed  mind  gave  a  sinister  interpretation.  Some 
of  her  friend’s  airy  family,  the  doves,  with  their  heads 
imbedded  disconsolately  in  their  bosoms,  were  hud¬ 
dled  in  a  corner  of  the  piazza  ;  others  had  alighted  on 
the  heads,  wings,  shoulders,  and  trumpets  of  the  mar¬ 
ble  angels  which  adorned  the  facade  of  the  neighbor¬ 
ing  church  ;  two  or  three  had  betaken  themselves  to 
the  Virgin’s  shrine ;  and  as  many  as  could  find  room 
were  sitting  on  Hilda’s  window-sill.  But  all  of  them, 
so  Miriam  fancied,  had  a  look  of  weary  expectation 
and  disappointment,  —  no  flights,  no  flutterings,  no 
cooing  murmur  ;  something  that  ought  to  have  made 
their  day  glad  and  bright  was  evidently  left  out  of 
this  day’s  history.  And,  furthermore,  Hilda’s  white 
window-curtain  was  closely  drawn,  with  only  that  one 
little  aperture  at  the  side,  which  Miriam  remembered 
noticing  the  night  before. 

“  Be  quiet,”  said  Miriam  to  her  own  heart,  pressing 
her  hand  hard  upon  it.  “  Why  shouldst  thou  throb 
now?  Hast  thou  not  endured  more  terrible  things 
than  this  ?  ” 

Whatever  were  her  apprehensions,  she  would  not 
turn  back.  It  might  be  —  and  the  solace  would  be 
worth  a  world  —  that  Hilda,  knowing  nothing  of  the 
past  night’s  calamity,  would  greet  her  friend  with  a 
sunny  smile,  and  so  restore  a  portion  of  the  vital 
warmth,  for  lack  of  which  her  soul  was  frozen.  But 
could  Miriam,  guilty  as  she  was,  permit  Hilda  to  kiss 
her  cheek,  to  clasp  her  hand,  and  thus  be  no  longer 
so  unspotted  from  the  world  as  heretofore  ? 

“  I  will  never  permit  her  sweet  touch  again,”  said 
Miriam,  toiling  up  the  staircase,  “  if  I  can  find  strength 
of  heart  to  forbid  it.  But,  oh  !  it  would  be  so  sooth¬ 
ing  in  this  wintry  fever-fit  of  my  heart.  There  can  be 


288 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENT. 


no  harm  to  my  white  Hilda  in  one  parting  kiss.  That 
shall  be  all !  ” 

But,  on  reaching  the  upper  landing-place,  Miriam 
paused,  and  stirred  not  again  till  she  had  brought  her¬ 
self  to  an  immovable  resolve. 

“  My  lips,  my  hand,  shall  never  meet  Hilda’s  more,” 
said  she. 

Meanwhile,  Hilda  sat  listlessly  in  her  painting-room. 
Had  you  looked  into  the  little  adjoining  chamber,  you 
might  have  seen  the  slight  imprint  of  her  figure  on 
the  bed,  but  would  also  have  detected  at  once  that  the 
white  counterpane  had  not  been  turned  down.  The 
pillow  was  more  disturbed  ;  she  had  turned  her  face 
upon  it,  the  poor  child,  and  bedewed  it  with  some  of 
those  tears  (among  the  most  chill  and  forlorn  that 
gush  from  human  sorrow)  which  the  innocent  heart 
pours  forth  at  its  first  actual  discovery  that  sin  is  in 
the  world.  The  young  and  pure  are  not  apt  to  find 
out  that  miserable  truth  until  it  is  brought  home  to 
them  by  the  guiltiness  of  some  trusted  friend.  They 
may  have  heard  much  of  the  evil  of  the  world,  and 
seem  to  know  it,  but  only  as  an  impalpable  theory. 
In  due  time,  some  mortal,  whom  they  reverence  too 
highly,  is  commissioned  by  Providence  to  teach  them 
this  direful  lesson ;  he  perpetrates  a  sin ;  and  Adam 
falls  anew,  and  Paradise,  heretofore  in  unfaded  bloom, 
is  lost  again,  and  closed  forever,  with  the  fiery  swords 
gleaming  at  its  gates. 

The  chair  in  which  Hilda  sat  was  near  the  portrait 
of  Beatrice  Cenci,  which  had  not  yet  been  taken  from 
the  easel.  It  is  a  peculiarity  of  this  picture,  that 
its  profoundest  expression  eludes  a  straightforward 
glance,  and  can  only  be  caught  by  side  glimpses,  or 
when  the  eye  falls  casually  upon  it;  even  as  if  the 


MIRIAM  AND  HILDA. 


239 


painted  face  had  a  life  and  consciousness  of  its  own, 
and,  resolving  not  to  betray  its  secret  of  grief  or  guilt, 
permitted  the  true  tokens  to  come  forth  only  when  it 
imagined  itself  unseen.  No  other  such  magical  effect 
has  ever  been  wrought  by  pencil. 

Now,  opposite  the  easel  hung  a  looking  -  glass,  in 
which  Beatrice’s  face  and  Hilda’s  were  both  reflectedo 
In  one  of  her  weary,  nerveless  changes  of  position, 
Hilda  happened  to  throw  her  eyes  on  the  glass,  and 
took  in  both  these  images  at  one  unpremeditated 
glance.  She  fancied  —  nor  was  it  without  horror  — 
that  Beatrice’s  expression,  seen  aside  and  vanishing 
in  a  moment,  had  been  depicted  in  her  own  face  like¬ 
wise,  and  flitted  from  it  as  timorously. 

“  Am  I,  too,  stained  with  guilt  ?  ”  thought  the  poor 
girl,  hiding  her  face  in  her  hands. 

Not  so,  thank  Heaven !  But,  as  regards  Beatrice’s 
picture,  the  incident  suggests  a  theory  which  may  ac¬ 
count  for  its  unutterable  grief  and  mysterious  shadow 
of  guilt,  without  detracting  from  the  purity  which  we 
love  to  attribute  to  that  ill-fated  girl.  Who,  indeed, 
can  look  at  that  mouth,  —  with  its  lips  half  apart,  as 
innocent  as  a  baby’s  that  has  been  crying,  —  and  not 
pronounce  Beatrice  sinless  ?  It  was  the  intimate  con¬ 
sciousness  of  her  father’s  sin  that  threw  its  shadow 
over  her,  and  frightened  her  into  a  remote  and  inac¬ 
cessible  region,  where  no  sympathy  could  come.  It 
was  the  knowledge  of  Miriam's  guilt  that  lent  the 
same  expression  to  Hilda’s  face. 

But  Hilda  nervously  moved  her  chair,  so  that  the 
images  in  the  glass  should  be  no  longer  visible.  She 
now  watched  a  speck  of  sunshine  that  came  through 
a  shuttered  window,  and  crept  from  object  to  object, 
indicating  each  with  a  touch  of  its  bright  finger,  and 


240 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


then  letting  them  all  vanish  successively.  In  like 
manner,  her  mind,  so  like  sunlight  in  its  natural  cheer¬ 
fulness,  went  from  thought  to  thought,  but  found 
nothing  that  it  could  dwell  upon  for  comfort.  Never 
before  had  this  young,  energetic,  active  spirit  known 
what  it  is  to  be  despondent.  It  was  the  unreality  of 
the  world  that  made  her  so.  Her  dearest  friend, 
whose  heart  seemed  the  most  solid  and  richest  of 
Hilda’s  possessions,  had  no  existence  for  her  any 
more ;  and  in  that  dreary  void,  out  of  which  Miriam 
had  disappeared,  the  substance,  the  truth,  the  integrity 
of  life,  the  motives  of  effort,  the  joy  of  success,  had 
departed  along  with  her. 

It  was  long  past  noon,  when  a  step  came  up  the 
staircase.  It  had  passed  beyond  the  limits  where 
there  was  communication  with  the  lower  regions  of 
the  palace,  and  was  mounting  the  successive  flights 
which  led  only  to  Hilda’s  precincts.  Faint  as  the 
tread  was,  she  heard  and  recognized  it.  It  startled 
her  into  sudden  life.  Her  first  impulse  was  to  spring 
to  the  door  of  the  studio,  and  fasten  it  with  lock  and 
bolt.  But  a  second  thought  made  her  feel  that  this 
would  be  an  unworthy  cowardice,  on  her  own  part, 
and  also  that  Miriam  —  only  yesterday  her  closest 
friend  —  had  a  right  to  be  told,  face  to  face,  that 
thenceforth  they  must  be  forever  strangers. 

She  heard  Miriam  pause,  outside  of  the  door.  We 
have  already  seen  what  was  the  latter’s  resolve  with 
respect  to  any  kiss  or  pressure  of  the  hand  between 
Hilda  and  herself.  We  know  not  what  became  of 
the  resolution.  As  Miriam  was  of  a  highly  impulsive 
character,  it  may  have  vanished  at  the  first  sight  of 
Hilda ;  but,  at  all  events,  she  appeared  to  have  dressed 
herself  up  in  a  garb  of  sunshine,  and  was  disclosed,  as 


MIRIAM  AND  HILDA. 


243 


the  door  swung  open,  in  all  the  glow  of  her  remarka¬ 
ble  beauty.  The  truth  was,  her  heart  leaped  conclu¬ 
sively  towards  the  only  refuge  that  it  had,  or  hoped. 
She  forgot,  just  one  instant,  all  cause  for  holding  her¬ 
self  aloofo  Ordinarily  there  was  a  certain  reserve  in 
Miriam’s  demonstrations  of  affection,  in  consonance 
with  the  delicacy  of  her  friend.  To-day,  she  opened 
her  arms  to  take  Hilda  in. 

“  Dearest,  darling  Hilda  !  ”  she  exclaimed.  “  It 
gives  me  new  life  to  see  you !  ” 

Hilda  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 
When  her  friend  made  a  step  or  two  from  the  door, 
she  put  forth  her  hands  with  an  involuntary  repellent 
gesture,  so  expressive,  that  Miriam  at  once  felt  a  great 
chasm  opening  itself  between  them  two.  They  might 
gaze  at  one  another  from  the  opposite  side,  but  with¬ 
out  the  possibility  of  ever  meeting  more ;  or,  at  least, 
since  the  chasm  could  never  be  bridged  over,  they 
must  tread  the  whole  round  of  Eternity  to  meet  on 
the  other  side.  There  was  even  a  terror  in  the  thought 
of  their  meeting  again.  It  was  as  if  Hilda  or  Miriam 
were  dead,  and  could  no  longer  hold  intercourse  with¬ 
out  violating  a  spiritual  law. 

Yet,  in  the  wanton  ness  of  her  despair,  Miriam  made 
one  more  step  towards  the  friend  whom  she  had  lost. 

“  Do  not  come  nearer,  Miriam !  ”  said  Hilda. 

Her  look  and  tone  were  those  of  sorrowful  entreaty, 
and  yet  they  expressed  a  kind  of  confidence,  as  if  the 
girl  were  conscious  of  a  safeguard  that  could  not  be 
violated. 

“What  has  happened  between  us,  Hilda?”  asked 
Miriam.  “  Are  we  not  friends  ?  ” 

“  No,  no  !  ”  said  Hilda,  shuddering. 

“At  least  we  have  been  friends,”  continued  Miriam. 
vol.  vi.  ; 


242 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


“  I  loved  you  dearly  !  I  love  you  still !  You  were  to 
me  as  a  younger  sister ;  yes,  dearer  than  sisters  of  the 
same  blood  ;  for  you  and  I  were  so  lonely,  Hilda,  that 
the  whole  world  pressed  us  together  by  its  solitude 
and  strangeness.  Then,  will  you  not  touch  my  hand  ? 
Am  I  not  the  same  as  yesterday  ? 5  ’ 

“  Alas  !  no,  Miriam !  ”  said  Hilda. 

“  Yes,  the  same,  —  the  same  for  you,  Hilda,”  re¬ 
joined  her  lost  friend.  “  Were  you  to  touch  my  hand, 
you  would  find  it  as  warm  to  your  grasp  as  ever.  If 
you  were  sick  or  suffering,  I  would  watch  night  and 
day  for  you.  It  is  in  such  simple  offices  that  true  af¬ 
fection  shows  itself ;  and  so  I  speak  of  them.  Yet 
now,  Hilda,  your  very  look  seems  to  put  me  beyond 
the  limits  of  human  kind  !  ” 

“  It  is  not  I,  Miriam,”  said  Hilda ;  “  not  I  that  have 
done  this.” 

“  You,  and  you  only,  Hilda,”  replied  Miriam, 
stirred  up  to  make  her  own  cause  good  by  the  repel¬ 
lent  force  which  her  friend  opposed  to  her.  “  I  am  a 
woman,  as  I  was  yesterday ;  endowed  with  the  same 
truth  of  nature,  the  same  warmth  of  heart,  the  same 
genuine  and  earnest  love,  which  you  have  always 
known  in  me.  In  any  regard  that  concerns  yourself, 
I  am  not  changed.  And  believe  me,  Hilda,  when  a 
human  being  has  chosen  a  friend  out  of  all  the  world, 
it  is  only  some  faithlessness  between  themselves,  ren¬ 
dering  true  intercourse  impossible,  that  can  justify 
either  friend  in  severing  the  bond.  Have  I  deceived 
you  ?  Then  cast  me  off  !  Have  I  wronged  you  per¬ 
sonally  ?  Then  forgive  me,  if  you  can.  But,  have  I 
sinned  against  God  and  man,  and  deeply  sinned? 
Then  be  more  my  friend  than  ever,  for  I  need  you 


more. 


MIRIAM  AND  HILDA. 


243 


w  Do  not  bewilder  me  thus,  Miriam !  ”  exclaimed 
Hilda,  who  had  not  forborne  to  express,  by  look  and 
gesture,  the  anguish  which  this  interview  inflicted  on 
her.  “  If  I  were  one  of  God’s  angels,  with  a  nature 
incapable  of  stain,  and  garments  that  never  could  be 
spotted,  I  would  keep  ever  at  your  side,  and  try  to 
lead  you  upward.  But  I  am  a  poor,  lonely  girl,  whom 
God  has  set  here  in  an  evil  world,  and  given  her  only 
a  white  robe,  and  bid  her  wear  it  back  to  Him,  as 
white  as  when  she  put  it  on.  Your  powerful  magnet¬ 
ism  would  be  too  much  for  me.  The  pure,  white  at¬ 
mosphere,  in  which  I  try  to  discern  what  things  are 
good  and  true,  would  be  discolored.  And,  therefore, 
Miriam,  before  it  is  too  late,  I  mean  to  put  faith  in 
this  awful  heart-quake,  which  warns  me  henceforth  to 
avoid  you.” 

“  Ah,  this  is  hard !  Ah,  this  is  terrible !  ”  mur¬ 
mured  Miriam,  dropping  her  forehead  in  her  hands. 
In  a  moment  or  two  she  looked  up  again,  as  pale  as 
death,  but  with  a  composed  countenance :  “I  always 
said,  Hilda,  that  you  were  merciless  ;  for  I  had  a  per¬ 
ception  of  it,  even  while  you  loved  me  best.  You 
have  no  sin,  nor  any  conception  of  what  it  is ;  and 
therefore  you  are  so  terribly  severe !  As  an  angel, 
you  are  not  amiss  ;  but,  as  a  human  creature,  and  a 
woman  among  earthly  men  and  women,  you  need  a  sin 
to  soften  you.” 

“  God  forgive  me,”  said  Hilda,  “  if  I  have  said  a 
needlessly  cruel  word !  ” 

“  Let  it  pass,”  answered  Miriam  ;  “  I,  whose  heart 
it  has  smitten  upon,  forgive  you.  And  tell  me,  before 
we  part  forever,  what  have  you  seen  or  known  of  me, 
since  we  last  met  ?  ” 

“  A  terrible  thing,  Miriam,”  said  Hilda,  growing 
paler  than  before. 


244 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


“  Do  you  see  it  written  in  my  face,  or  painted  in 
my  eyes?”  inquired  Miriam,  her  trouble  seeking  re¬ 
lief  in  a  half-frenzied  raillery.  “  I  would  fain  know 
how  it  is  that  Providence,  or  fate,  brings  eye-witnesses 
to  watch  us,  when  we  fancy  ourselves  acting  in  the 
remotest  privacy.  Did  all  Rome  see  it,  then  ?  Or,  at 
least,  our  merry  company  of  artists  ?  Or  is  it  some 
blood-stain  on  me,  or  death-scent  in  my  garments? 
They  say  that  monstrous  deformities  sprout  out  of 
fiends,  who  once  were  lovely  angels.  Do  you  perceive 
such  in  me  already  ?  Tell  me,  by  our  past  friendship, 
Hilda,  all  you  know.” 

Thus  adjured,  and  frightened  by  the  wild  emotion 
which  Miriam  could  not  suppress,  Hilda  strove  to  tell 
what  she  had  witnessed. 

“  After  the  rest  of  the  party  had  passed  on,  I  went 
back  to  speak  to  you,”  she  said ;  “  for  there  seemed 
to  be  a  trouble  on  your  mind,  and  I  wished  to  share  it 
with  you,  if  you  could  permit  me.  The  door  of  the 
little  court-yard  was  partly  shut ;  but  I  pushed  it  open, 
and  saw  you  within,  and  Donatello,  and  a  third  person, 
whom  I  had  before  noticed  in  the  shadow  of  a  niche. 
He  approached  you,  Miriam.  You  knelt  to  him  !  — 
I  saw  Donatello  spring  upon  him  !  I  would  have 
shrieked,  but  my  throat  was  dry.  I  would  have  rushed 
forward,  but  my  limbs  seemed  rooted  to  the  earth. 
It  was  like  a  flash  of  lightning.  A  look  passed  from 
your  eyes  to  Donatello’s  —  a  look  ”  — 

“  Yes,  Hilda,  yes !  ”  exclaimed  Miriam,  with  intense 
eagerness.  “  Do  not  pause  now  !  That  look  ?  ” 

“  It  revealed  all  your  heart,  Miriam,”  continued 
Hilda,  covering  her  eyes  as  if  to  shut  out  the  recollec¬ 
tion  ;  “  a  look  of  hatred,  triumph,  vengeance,  and,  as 
it  were,  joy  at  some  unhoped-for  relief.” 


MIRIAM  AND  HILDA. 


245 


“  Ah !  Donatello  was  right,  then,”  murmured  Mir¬ 
iam,  who  shook  throughout  all  her  frame.  “  My  eyes 
bade  him  do  it !  Go  on,  Hilda.” 

“  It  all  passed  so  quickly,  —  all  like  a  glare  of 
lightning,”  said  Hilda,  “  and  yet  it  seemed  to  me  that 
Donatello  had  paused,  while  one  might  draw  a  breath. 
But  that  look  !  —  Ah,  Miriam,  spare  me.  Need  I  tell 
more  ?  ” 

“  No  more ;  there  needs  no  more,  Hilda,”  replied 
Miriam,  bowing  her  head,  as  if  listening  to  a  sentence 
of  condemnation  from  a  supreme  tribunal.  “It  is 
enough !  You  have  satisfied  my  mind  on  a  point 
where  it  was  greatly  disturbed.  Henceforward,  I 
shall  be  quiet.  Thank  you,  Hilda.” 

She  was  on  the  point  of  departing,  but  turned  back 
again  from  the  threshold. 

“  This  is  a  terrible  secret  to  be  kept  in  a  young 
girl’s  bosom,”  she  observed;  “  what  will  you  do  with 
it,  my  poor  child?  ” 

“Heaven  help  and  guide  me,”  answered  Hilda, 
bursting  into  tears ;  “  for  the  burden  of  it  crushes  me 
to  the  earth  !  It  seems  a  crime  to  know  of  such  a 
thing,  and  to  keep  it  to  myself.  It  knocks  within  my 
heart  continually,  threatening,  imploring,  insisting  to 
be  let  out !  Oh,  my  mother  !  —  my  mother  !  W ere 
she  yet  living,  I  would  travel  over  land  and  sea  to  tell 
her  this  dark  secret,  as  I  told  all  the  little  troubles  of 
my  infancy.  But  I  am  alone  —  alone  !  Miriam,  you 
were  my  dearest,  only  friend.  Advise  me  what  to  do.” 

This  was  a  singular  appeal,  no  doubt,  from  the 
stainless  maiden  to  the  guilty  woman,  whom  she  had 
just  banished  from  her  heart  forever.  But  it  bore 
striking  testimony  to  the  impression  which  Miriam’s 
natural  uprightness  and  impulsive  generosity  had 


246 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


made  on  the  friend  who  knew  her  best ;  and  it  deeply 
comforted  the  poor  criminal,  by  proving  to  her  that 
the  bond  between  Hilda  and  herself  was  vital  yet. 

As  far  as  she  was  able,  Miriam  at  once  responded 
to  the  girl’s  cry  for  help. 

“  If  I  deemed  it  good  for  your  peace  of  mind,”  she 
said,  “  to  bear  testimony  against  me  for  this  deed,  in 
the  face  of  all  the  world,  no  consideration  of  myself 
should  weigh  with  me  an  instant.  But  I  believe  that 
you  would  find  no  relief  in  such  a  course.  What  men 
call  justice  lies  chiefly  in  outward  formalities,  and  has 
never  the  close  application  and  fitness  that  would  be 
satisfactory  to  a  soul  like  yours.  I  cannot  be  fairly 
tried  and  judged  before  an  earthly  tribunal ;  and  of 
this,  Hilda,  you  would  perhaps  become  fatally  con¬ 
scious  when  it  was  too  late.  Homan  justice,  above  all 
things,  is  a  byword.  What  have  you  to  do  with  it  ? 
Leave  all  such  thoughts  aside !  Yet,  Hilda,  I  would 
not  have  you  keep  my  secret  imprisoned  in  your  heart 
if  it  tries  to  leap  out,  and  stings  you,  like  a  wild,  ven¬ 
omous  thing,  when  you  thrust  it  back  again.  Have 
you  no  other  friend,  now  that  you  have  been  forced  to 
give  me  up  ?  ” 

“  No  other,”  answered  Hilda,  sadly. 

“  Yes  ;  Kenyon  !  ”  rejoined  Miriam. 

“  He  cannot  be  my  friend,”  said  Hilda,  “  because  — < 
because  —  I  have  fancied  that  he  sought  to  be  some¬ 
thing  more.” 

“  Fear  nothing  !  ”  replied  Miriam,  shaking  her  head, 
with  a  strange  smile.  “  This  story  will  frighten  his 
new-born  love  out  of  its  little  life,  if  that  be  what  you 
wish.  Tell  him  the  secret,  then,  and  take  his  wise  and 
honorable  counsel  as  to  what  should  next  be  done.  I 
know  not  what  else  to  say.” 


MIRIAM  AND  HILDA. 


247 


“  I  never  dreamed,”  said  Hilda,  —  “  how  could  you 
think  it  ?  —  of  betraying  you  to  justice.  But  I  see  how 
it  is,  Miriam.  I  must  keep  your  secret,  and  die  of  it, 
unless  God  sends  me  some  relief  by  methods  which 
are  now  beyond  my  power  to  imagine.  It  is  very 
dreadful.  Ah  !  now  I  understand  how  the  sins  of 
generations  past  have  created  an  atmosphere  of  sin 
for  those  that  follow.  While  there  is  a  single  guilty 
person  in  the  universe,  each  innocent  one  must  feel 
his  innocence  tortured  by  that,  guilt.  Your  deed,  Mir¬ 
iam,  has  darkened  the  whole  sky !  ” 

Poor  Hilda  turned  from  her  unhappy  friend,  and, 
sinking  on  her  knees  in  a  corner  of  the  chamber,  could 
not  be  prevailed  upon  to  utter  another  word.  And 
Miriam,  with  a  long  regard  from  the  threshold,  bade 
farewell  to  this  doves’  nest,  this  one  little  nook  of  pure 
thoughts  and  innocent  enthusiasms,  into  which  she  had 
brought  such  trouble.  Every  crime  destroys  more 
Edens  than  our  own  ! 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 


THE  TOWER  AMONG  THE  APENNINES. 

It  was  in  June  that  the  sculptor,  Kenyon,  arrived 
on  horseback  at  the  gate  of  an  ancient  country-house 
(which,  from  some  of  its  features,  might  almost  be 
called  a  castle)  situated  in  a  part  of  Tuscany  some¬ 
what  remote  from  the  ordinary  track  of  tourists. 
Thither  we  must  now  accompany  him,  and  endeavor 
to  make  our  story  flow  onward,  like  a  streamlet,  past 
a  gray  tower  that  rises  on  the  hill-side,  overlooking  a 
spacious  valley,  which  is  set  in  the  grand  framework 
of  the  Apennines. 

The  sculptor  had  left  Rome  with  the  retreating  tide 
of  foreign  residents.  For,  as  summer  approaches,  the 
Niobe  of  Nations  is  made  to  bewail  anew,  and  doubt¬ 
less  with  sincerity,  the  loss  of  that  large  part  of  her 
population,  which  she  derives  from  other  lands,  and 
on  whom  depends  much  of  whatever  remnant  of  pros¬ 
perity  she  still  enjoys.  Rome,  at  this  season,  is  per¬ 
vaded  and  overhung  with  atmospheric  terrors,  and 
insulated  within  a  charmed  and  deadly  circle.  The 
crowd  of  wandering  tourists  betake  themselves  to 
Switzerland,  to  the  Rhine,  or,  from  this  central  home 
of  the  world,  to  their  native  homes  in  England  or 
America,  which  they  are  apt  thenceforward  to  look 
upon  as  provincial,  after  once  having  yielded  to  the 
spell  of  the  Eternal  City.  The  artist,  who  contem¬ 
plates  an  indefinite  succession  of  winters  in  this  home 


THE  TOWER  AMONG  THE  APENNINES.  249 


of  art  (though  his  first  thought  was  merely  to  improve 
himself  by  a  brief  visit),  goes  forth,  in  the  summer 
time,  to  sketch  scenery  and  costume  among  the  Tuscan 
hills,  and  pour,  if  he  can,  the  purple  air  of  Italy  over 
his  canvas.  He  studies  the  old  schools  of  art  in  the 
mountain-towns  where  they  were  born,  and  where  they 
are  still  to  be  seen  in  the  faded  frescos  of  Giotto  and 
Cimabue,  on  the  walls  of  many  a  church,  or  in  the 
dark  chapels,  in  which  the  sacristan  draws  aside  the 
veil  from  a  treasured  picture  of  Perugino.  Thence, 
the  happy  painter  goes  to  walk  the  long,  bright  galler¬ 
ies  of  Florence,  or  to  steal  glowing  colors  from  the  mi¬ 
raculous  works,  which  he  finds  in  a  score  of  Venetian 
palaces.  Such  summers  as  these,  spent  amid  whatever 
is  exquisite  in  art,  or  wild  and  picturesque  in  nature, 
may  not  inadequately  repay  him  for  the  chill  neglect 
and  disappointment  through  which  he  has  probably 
languished,  in  his  Roman  winter.  This  sunny,  shad¬ 
owy,  breezy,  wandering  life,  in  which  he  seeks  for 
beauty  as  his  treasure,  and  gathers  for  his  winter’s 
honey  what  is  but  a  passing  fragrance  to  all  other 
men,  is  worth  living  for,  come  afterwards  what  may. 
Even  if  he  die  unrecognized,  the  artist  has  had  his 
share  of  enjoyment  and  success. 

Kenyon  had  seen,  at  a  distance  of  many  miles,  the 
old  villa  or  castle,  towards  which  his  journey  lay,  look¬ 
ing  from  its  height  over  a  broad  expanse  of  valley.  As 
he  drew  nearer,  however,  it  had  been  hidden  among 
the  inequalities  of  the  hill-side,  until  the  winding  road 
brought  him  almost  to  the  iron  gateway.  The  sculp¬ 
tor  found  this  substantial  barrier  fastened  with  lock 
and  bolt.  There  was  no  bell,  nor  other  instrument  of 
sound  ;  and,  after  summoning  the  invisible  garrison 
with  his  voice,  instead  of  a  trumpet,  he  had  leisure  to 
take  a  glance  at  the  exterior  of  the  fortress. 


250 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


About  thirty  yards  within  the  gateway  rose  a  square 
tower,  lofty  enough  to  be  a  very  prominent  object  in 
the  landscape,  and  more  than  sufficiently  massive  in 
proportion  to  its  height.  Its  antiquity  was  evidently 
such,  that,  in  a  climate  of  more  abundant  moisture, 
the  ivy  would  have  mantled  it  from  head  to  foot  in  a 
garment  that  might,  by  this  time,  have  been  centuries 
old,  though  ever  new.  In  the  dry  Italian  air,  how¬ 
ever,  Nature  had  only  so  far  adopted  this  old  pile  of 
stone- work  as  to  cover  almost  every  hand’s-breadth  of 
it  with  close-clinging  lichens  and  yellow  moss ;  and 
the  immemorial  growth  of  these  kindly  productions 
rendered  the  general  hue  of  the  tower  soft  and  vener¬ 
able,  and  took  away  the  aspect  of  nakedness  which 
would  have  made  its  age  drearier  than  now. 

Up  and  down  the  height  of  the  tower  were  scattered 
three  or  four  windows,  the  lower  ones  grated  with  iron 
bars,  the  upper  ones  vacant  both  of  window  -  frames 
and  glass.  Besides  these  larger  openings,  there  were 
several  loopholes  and  little  square  apertures,  which 
might  be  supposed  to  light  the  staircase,  that  doubt¬ 
less  climbed  the  interior  towards  the  battlemented  and 
machicolated  summit.  With  this  last-mentioned  war¬ 
like  garniture  upon  its  stern  old  head  and  brow,  the 
tower  seemed  evidently  a  stronghold  of  times  long 
past.  Many  a  cross-bowman  had  shot  his  shafts  from 
those  windows  and  loopholes,  and  from  the  vantage- 
height  of  those  gray  battlements  ;  many  a  flight  of  ar¬ 
rows,  too,  had  hit  all  round  about  the  embrasures 
above,  or  the  apertures  below,  where  the  helmet  of 
a  defender  had  momentarily  glimmered.  On  festal 
nights,  moreover,  a  hundred  lamps  had  often  gleamed 
afar  over  the  valley,  suspended  from  the  iron  hooks 
that  were  ranged  for  the  purpose  beneath  the  battle¬ 
ments  and  every  window. 


THE  TOWER  AMONG  THE  APENNINES.  251 


Connected  with  the  tower,  and  extending  behind  it, 
there  seemed  to  be  a  very  spacious  residence,  chiefly 
of  more  modern  date.  It  perhaps  owed  much  of  its 
fresher  appearance,  however,  to  a  coat  of  stucco  and 
yellow  wash,  which  is  a  sort  of  renovation  very  much 
in  vogue  with  the  Italians.  Kenyon  noticed  over  a 
doorway,  in  the  portion  of  the  edifice  immediately  ad¬ 
jacent  to  the  tower,  a  cross,  which,  with  a  bell  sus¬ 
pended  above  the  roof,  indicated  that  this  was  a  con¬ 
secrated  precinct,  and  the  chapel  of  the  mansion. 

Meanwhile,  the  hot  sun  so  incommoded  the  unshel¬ 
tered  traveller,  that  he  shouted  forth  another  impatient 
summons.  Happening,  at  the  same  moment,  to  look 
upward,  he  saw  a  figure  leaning  from  an  embrasure  of 
the  battlements,  and  gazing  down  at  him. 

44  Ho,  Signore  Count !  ”  cried  the  sculptor,  waving 
his  straw  hat,  for  he  recognized  the  face,  after  a  mo¬ 
ment’s  doubt.  44  This  is  a  warm  reception,  truly ! 
Pray  bid  your  porter  let  me  in,  before  the  sun  shriv¬ 
els  me  quite  into  a  cinder.” 

44 1  will  come  myself,”  responded  Donatello,  flinging 
down  his  voice  out  of  the  clouds,  as  it  were ;  44  old 
Tomaso  and  old  Stella  are  both  asleep,  no  doubt,  and 
the  rest  of  the  people  are  in  the  vineyard.  But  I  have 
expected  you,  and  you  are  welcome  !  ” 

The  young  Count — as  perhaps  we  had  better  desig¬ 
nate  him  in  his  ancestral  tower  —  vanished  from  the 
battlements  ;  and  Kenyon  saw  his  figure  appear  suc¬ 
cessively  at  each  of  the  windows,  as  he  descended. 
On  every  reappearance,  he  turned  his  face  towards 
the  sculptor  and  gave  a  nod  and  smile  ;  for  a  kindly 
impulse  prompted  him  thus  to  assure  his  visitor  of  a 
welcome,  after  keeping  him  so  long  at  an  inhospitable 
threshold. 


252 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


Kenyon,  however  (naturally  and  professionally  ex¬ 
pert  at  reading  the  expression  of  the  human  counte¬ 
nance),  had  a  vague  sense  that  this  was  not  the  young 
friend  whom  he  had  known  so  familiarly  in  Rome  ; 
not  the  sylvan  and  untutored  youth,  whom  Miriam, 
Hilda,  and  himself  had  liked,  laughed  at,  and  sported 
with ;  not  the  Donatello  whose  identity  they  had  so 
playfully  mixed  up  with  that  of  the  Faun  of  Prax¬ 
iteles. 

Finally,  when  his  host  had  emerged  from  a  side 
portal  of  the  mansion,  and  approached  the  gateway, 
the  traveller  still  felt  that  there  was  something  lost, 
or  something  gained  (he  hardly  knew  which),  that  set 
the  Donatello  of  to-day  irreconcilably  at  odds  with 
him  of  yesterday.  His  very  gait  showed  it,  in  a  cer¬ 
tain  gravity,  a  weight  and  measure  of  step,  that  had 
nothing  in  common  with  the  irregular  buoyancy  which 
used  to  distinguish  him.  His  face  was  paler  and  thin¬ 
ner,  and  the  lips  less  full  and  less  apart. 

“  I  have  looked  for  you  a  long  while,”  said  Dona¬ 
tello  ;  and,  though  his  voice  sounded  differently,  and 
cut  out  its  words  more  sharply  than  had  been  its  wont, 
still  there  was  a  smile  shining  on  his  face,  that,  for  the 
moment,  quite  brought  back  the  Faun.  “I  shall  be 
more  cheerful,  perhaps,  now  that  you  have  come.  It 
is  very  solitary  here.” 

“  I  have  come  slowly  along,  often  lingering,  often 
turning  aside,”  replied  Kenyon  ;  “  for  I  found  a  great 
deal  to  interest  me  in  the  mediaeval  sculpture  hidden 
away  in  the  churches  hereabouts.  An  artist,  whether 
painter  or  sculptor,  may  be  pardoned  for  loitering 
through  such  a  region.  But  what  a  fine  old  tower! 
Its  tall  front  is  like  a  page  of  black-letter,  taken  from 
the  history  of  the  Italian  republics.” 


THE  TOWER  AMONG  THE  APENNINES .  253 


“  I  know  little  or  nothing  of  its  history,”  said  the 
Count,  glancing  upward  at  the  battlements,  where  he 
had  just  been  standing.  “  But  I  thank  my  forefathers 
for  building  it  so  high.  I  like  the  windy  summit  bet¬ 
ter  than  the  world  below,  and  spend  much  of  my  time 
there,  nowadays.” 

“  It  is  a  pity  you  are  not  a  star-gazer,”  observed 
Kenyon,  also  looking  up.  “  It  is  higher  than  Galileo’s 
tower,  which  I  saw,  a  week  or  two  ago,  outside  of  the 
walls  o|  Florence.” 

“  A  star-gazer ?  I  am  one,”  replied  Donatello.  “I 
sleep  in  the  tower,  and  often  watch  very  late  on  the 
battlements.  There  is  a  dismal  old  staircase  to  climb, 
however,  before  reaching  the  top,  and  a  succession  of 
dismal  chambers,  from  story  to  story.  Some  of  them 
were  prison  chambers  in  times  past,  as  old  Tomaso 
will  tell  you.” 

The  repugnance  intimated  in  his  tone  at  the  idea  of 
this  gloomy  staircase  and  these  ghostly,  dimly  lighted 
rooms,  reminded  Kenyon  of  the  original  Donatello, 
much  more  than  his  present  custom  of  midnight  vigils 
on  the  battlements. 

“  I  shall  be  glad  to  share  your  watch,”  said  the 
guest;  “especially  by  moonlight.  The  prospect  of 
this  broad  valley  must  be  very  fine.  But  I  was  not 
aware,  my  friend,  that  these  were  your  country  habits. 
I  have  fancied  you  in  a  sort  of  Arcadian  life,  tasting 
rich  figs,  and  squeezing  the  juice  out  of  the  sunniest 
grapes,  and  sleeping  soundly  all  night,  after  a  day  of 
simple  pleasures.” 

“  I  may  have  known  such  a  life,  when  I  was  young¬ 
er,”  answered  the  Count,  gravely.  “  I  am  not  a  boy 
now.  Time  flies  over  us,  but  leaves  its  shadow  be¬ 
hind.” 


254 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


The  sculptor  could  not  but  smile  at  the  triteness  of 
the  remark,  which,  nevertheless,  had  a  kind  of  orig¬ 
inality  as  coming  from  Donatello.  He  had  thought  it 
out  from  his  own  experience,  and  perhaps  considered 
himself  as  communicating  a  new  truth  to  mankind. 

They  were  now  advancing  up  the  court-yard  ;  and 
the  long  extent  of  the  villa,  with  its  iron-barred  lower 
windows  and  balconied  upper  ones,  became  visible, 
stretching  back  towards  a  grove  of  trees. 

“  At  some  period  of  your  family  history,”  observed 
Kenyon,  “  the  Counts  of  Monte  Beni  must  have  led  a 
patriarchal  life  in  this  vast  house.  A  great-grandsire 
and  all  his  descendants  might  find  ample  verge  here, 
and  with  space,  too,  for  each  separate  brood  of  little 
ones  to  play  within  its  own  precincts.  Is  your  present 
household  a  large  one  ?  ” 

“  Only  myself,”  answered  Donatello,  “  and  Tomaso, 
who  has  been  butler  since  my  grandfather’s  time,  and 
old  Stella,  who  goes  sweeping  and  dusting  about  the 
chambers,  and  Girolamo,  the  cook,  who  has  but  an 
idle  life  of  it.  He  shall  send  you  up  a  chicken  forth¬ 
with.  But,  first  of  all,  I  must  summon  one  of  the 
contadini  from  the  farm-house  yonder,  to  take  your 
horse  to  the  stable.” 

Accordingly,  the  young  Count  shouted  amain,  and 
with  such  effect,  that,  after  several  repetitions  of  the 
outcry,  an  old  gray  woman  protruded .  her  head  and  a 
broom-handle  from  a  chamber  window  ;  the  venerable 
butler  emerged  from  a  recess  in  the  side  of  the  house, 
where  was  a  well,  or  reservoir,  in  which  he  had  been 
cleansing  a  small  wine-cask ;  and  a  sunburnt  conta- 
dino,  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  showed  himself  on  the  out¬ 
skirts  of  the  vineyard,  with  some  kind  of  a  farming 
tool  in  his  hand.  Donatello  found  employment  for  all 


THE  TOWER  AMONG  THE  APENNINES.  255 


these  retainers  in  providing  accomodation  for  his  guest 
and  steed,  and  then  ushered  the  sculptor  into  the  vesti¬ 
bule  of  the  house. 

It  was  a  square  and  lofty  entrance-room,  which,  by 
the  solidity  of  its  construction,  might  have  been  an 
Etruscan  tomb,  being  paved  and  walled  with  heavy 
blocks  of  stone,  and  vaulted  almost  as  massively  over= 
head.  On  two  sides,  there  were  doors,  opening  into 
long  suites  of  anterooms  and  saloons  ;  on  the  third 
side,  a  stone  staircase,  of  spacious  breadth,  ascending, 
by  dignified  degrees  and  with  wide  resting-places,  to 
another  floor  of  similar  extent.  Through  one  of  the 
doors,  which  was  ajar,  Kenyon  beheld  an  almost  inter¬ 
minable  vista  of  apartments,  opening  one  beyond  the 
other,  and  reminding  him  of  the  hundred  rooms  in 
Blue  Beard’s  castle,  or  the  countless  halls  in  some 
palace  of  the  Arabian  Nights. 

It  must  have  been  a  numerous  family,  indeed,  that 
could  ever  have  sufficed  to  people  with  human  life  so 
large  an  abode  as  this,  and  impart  social  warmth  to 
such  a  wide  world  within  doors.  The  sculptor  con¬ 
fessed  to  himself,  that  Donatello  could  allege  reason 
enough  for  growing  melancholy,  having  only  his  own 
personality  to  vivify  it  all. 

“  How  a  woman’s  face  would  brighten  it  up !  ”  he 
ejaculated,  not  intending  to  be  overheard. 

But,  glancing  at  Donatello,  he  saw  a  stern  and  sor¬ 
rowful  look  in  his  eyes,  which  altered  his  youthful 
face  as  if  it  had  seen  thirty  years  of  trouble  ;  and,  at 
the  same  moment,  old  Stella  showed  herself  through 
one  of  the  doorways,  as  the  only  representative  of  her 
sex  at  Monte  Beni. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 


SUNSHINE. 

“  Come/’  said  the  Count,  “  I  see  you  already  find 
the  old  house  dismal.  So  do  I,  indeed !  And  yet  it 
was  a  cheerful  place  in  my  boyhood.  But,  you  see,  in 
my  father’s  days  (and  the  same  was  true  of  all  my 
endless  line  of  grandfathers,  as  I  have  heard),  there 
used  to  be  uncles,  aunts,  and  all  manner  of  kindred, 
dwelling  together  as  one  family.  They  were  a  merry 
and  kindly  race  of  people,  for  the  most  part,  and  kept 
one  another’s  hearts  warm.” 

“Two  hearts  might  be  enough  for  warmth,”  ob¬ 
served  the  sculptor,  “  even  in  so  large  a  house  as  this. 
One  solitary  heart,  it  is  true,  may  be  apt  to  shiver  a 
little.  But,  I  trust,  my  friend,  that  the  genial  blood 
of  your  race  still  flows  in  many  veins  besides  your 
own  ?  ” 

“  I  am  the  last,”  said  Donatello,  gloomily.  “  They 
have  all  vanished  from  me,  since  my  childhood.  Old 
Tomaso  will  tell  you  that  the  air  of  Monte  Beni  is  not 
so  favorable  to  length  of  days  as  it  used  to  be.  But 
that  is  not  the  secret  of  the  quick  extinction  of  my 
kindred.” 

“Then  you  are  aware  of  a  more  satisfactory  rea¬ 
son  ?  ”  suggested  Kenyon. 

“  I  thought  of  one,  the  other  night,  while  I  was  gaz¬ 
ing  at  the  stars,”  answered  Donatello  ;  “  but,  pardon 
me,  I  do  not  mean  to  tell  it.  One  cause,  however,  of 


SUNSHINE. 


257 


the  longer  and  healthier  life  of  my  forefathers  was, 
that  they  had  many  pleasant  customs,  and  means  of 
making  themselves  glad,  and  their  guests  and  friends 
along  with  them.  Nowadays  we  have  but  one !  ” 

“  And  what  is  that  ?  ”  asked  the  sculptor. 

“  You  shall  see !  ”  said  his  young  host. 

By  this  time,  he  had  ushered  the  sculptor  into  one 
of  the  numberless  saloons  ;  and,  calling  for  refresh¬ 
ment,  old  Stella  placed  a  cold  fowl  upon  the  table, 
and  quickly  followed  it  with  a  savory  omelet,  which 
Girolamo  had  lost  no  time  in  preparing.  She  also 
brought  some  cherries,  plums,  and  apricots,  and  a 
plate  full  of  particularly  delicate  figs,  of  last  year’s 
growth.  The  butler  showing  his  white  head  at  the 
door,  his  master  beckoned  to  him. 

“  Tomaso,  bring  some  Sunshine  !  ”  said  he. 

The  readiest  method  of  obeying  this  order,  one 
might  suppose,  would  have  been,  to  fling  wide  the 
green  window-blinds,  and  let  the  glow  of  the  summer 
noon  into  the  carefully  shaded  room.  But,  at  Monte 
Beni,  with  provident  caution  against  the  wintry  days, 
when  there  is  little  sunshine,  and  the  rainy  ones,  when 
there  is  none,  it  was  the  hereditary  custom  to  keep 
their  Sunshine  stored  away  in  the  cellar.  Old  Tomaso 
quickly  produced  some  of  it  in  a  small,  straw-covered 
flask,  out  of  which  he  extracted  the  cork,  and  inserted 
a  little  cotton  wool,  to  absorb  the  olive-oil  that  kept 
the  precious  liquid  from  the  air. 

“  This  is  a  wine,”  observed  the  Count,  “  the  secret 
of  making  which  has  been  kept  in  our  family  for  cen¬ 
turies  upon  centuries  ;  nor  would  it  avail  any  man  to 
steal  the  secret,  unless  he  could  also  steal  the  vineyard, 
in  which  alone  the  Monte  Beni  grape  can  be  produced. 
There  is  little  else  left  me,  save  that  patch  of  vines. 

VOL.  VI. 


258 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


Taste  some  of  their  juice,  and  tell  me  whether  it  is 
worthy  to  he  called  Sunshine  !  for  that  is  its  name.” 

44  A  glorious  name,  too  !  ”  cried  the  sculptor. 

44  Taste  it,”  said  Donatello,  filling  his  friend’s  glass, 
and  pouring  likewise  a  little  into  his  own.  44  But  first 
smell  its  fragrance  ;  for  the  wine  is  very  lavish  of  it, 
and  will  scatter  it  all  abroad.” 

44  Ah,  how  exquisite  !  ”  said  Kenyon.  44  No  other 
wine  has  a  bouquet  like  this.  The  flavor  must  be  rare, 
indeed,  if  it  fulfil  the  promise  of  this  fragrance,  which 
is  like  the  airy  sweetness  of  youthful  hopes,  that  no 
realities  will  ever  satisfy !  ” 

This  invaluable  liquor  was  of  a  pale  golden  hue, 
like  other  of  the  rarest  Italian  wines,  and,  if  carelessly 
and  irreligiously  quaffed,  might  have  been  mistaken 
for  a  very  fine  sort  of  champagne.  It  was  not,  how¬ 
ever,  an  effervescing  wine,  although  its  delicate  piq¬ 
uancy  produced  a  somewhat  similar  effect  upon  the 
palate.  Sipping,  the  guest  longed  to  sip  again ;  but  the 
wine  demanded  so  deliberate  a  pause,  in  order  to  de¬ 
tect  the  hidden  peculiarities  and  subtile  exquisiteness 
of  its  flavor,  that  to  drink  it  was  really  more  a  moral 
than  a  physical  enjoyment.  There  was  a  deliciousness 
in  it  that  eluded  analysis,  and  —  like  whatever  else  is 
superlatively  good  —  was  perhaps  better  appreciated 
in  the  memory  than  by  present  consciousness. 

One  of  its  most  ethereal  charms  lay  in  the  transitory 
life  of  the  wine’s  richest  qualities  ;  for,  while  it  re¬ 
quired  a  certain  leisure  and  delay,  yet,  if  you  lingered 
too  long  upon  the  draught,  it  became  disenchanted 
both  of  its  fragrance  and  its  flavor. 

The  lustre  should  not  be  forgotten,  among  the  other 
admirable  endowments  of  the  Monte  Beni  wine ;  for, 
as  it  stood  in  Kenyon’s  glass,  a  little  circle  of  light 


SUNSHINE.  259 

glowed  on  the  table  round  about  it,  as  if  it  were  really 
so  much  golden  sunshine. 

44 1  feel  myself  a  better  man  for  that  ethereal  pota¬ 
tion,”  observed  the  sculptor.  u  The  finest  Orvieto,  or 
that  famous  wine,  the  Est  Est  Est  of  Montefiascone, 
is  vulgar  in  comparison.  This  is  surely  the  wine  of 
the  Golden  Age,  such  as  Bacchus  himself  first  taught 
mankind  to  press  from  the  choicest  of  his  grapes.  My 
dear  Count,  why  is  it  not  illustrious  ?  The  pale,  liquid 
gold,  in  every  such  flask  as  that,  might  be  solidified 
into  golden  scudi,  and  would  quickly  make  you  a  mil- 
lionnaire !  ” 

Tomaso,  the  old  butler,  who  was  standing  by  the 
table,  and  enjoying  the  praises  of  the  wine  quite  as 
much  as  if  bestowed  upon  himself,  made  answer,  — 

44  We  have  a  tradition,  signore,”  said  he,  44  that  this 
rare  wine  of  our  vineyard  would  lose  all  its  wonder¬ 
ful  qualities,  if  any  of  it  were  sent  to  market.  The 
Counts  of  Monte  Beni  have  never  parted  with  a  single 
flask  of  it  for  gold.  At  their  banquets,  in  the  olden 
time,  they  have  entertained  princes,  cardinals,  and 
once  an  emperor,  and  once  a  pope,  with  this  delicious 
wine,  and  always,  even  to  this  day,  it  has  been  their 
custom  to  let  it  flow  freely,  when  those  whom  they 
love  and  honor  sit  at  the  board.  But  the  grand  duke 
himself  could  not  drink  that  wine,  except  it  were  un¬ 
der  this  very  roof  !  ” 

44  What  you  tell  me,  my  good  friend,”  replied  Ken¬ 
yon,  44  makes  me  venerate  the  Sunshine  of  Monte  Beni 
even  more  abundantly  than  before.  As  I  understand 
you,  it  is  a  sort  of  consecrated  juice,  and  symbolizes 
the  holy  virtues  of  hospitality  and  social  kindness  ?  ” 

44  Why,  partly  so,  Signore,”  said  the  old  butler,  with 
a  shrewd  twinkle  in  his  eye  ,  44  but,  to  speak  out  all 


260 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


the  truth,  there  is  another  excellent  reason  why  neither 
a  cask  nor  a  flask  of  our  precious  vintage  should  ever 
be  sent  to  market.  The  wine,  Signore,  is  so  fond  of 
its  native  home,  that  a  transportation  of  even  a  few 
miles  turns  it  quite  sour.  And  yet  it  is  a  wine  that 
keeps  well  in  the  cellar,  underneath  this  floor,  and 
gathers  fragrance,  flavor,  and  brightness,  in  its  dark 
dungeon.  That  very  flask  of  Sunshine,  now,  has  kept 
itself  for  you,  sir  guest  (as  a  maid  reserves  her  sweet¬ 
ness  till  her  lover  comes  for  it),  ever  since  a  merry 
vintage-time,  when  the  Signore  Count  here  was  a 
boy !  ” 

“You  must  not  wait  for  Tomaso  to  end  his  dis¬ 
course  about  the  wine,  before  drinking  off  your  glass,” 
observed  Donatello.  “When  once  the  flask  is  un¬ 
corked,  its  finest  qualities  lose  little  time  in  making 
their  escape.  I  doubt  whether  your  last  sip  will  be 
quite  so  delicious  as  you  found  the  first.” 

And,  in  truth,  the  sculptor  fancied  that  the  Sun¬ 
shine  became  almost  imperceptibly  clouded,  as  he  ap¬ 
proached  the  bottom  of  the  flask.  The  effect  of  the 
wine,  however,  was  a  gentle  exhilaration,  which  did 
not  so  speedily  pass  away. 

Being  thus  refreshed,  Kenyon  looked  around  him 
at  the  antique  saloon  in  which  they  sat.  It  was  con¬ 
structed  in  a  most  ponderous  style,  with  a  stone  floor, 
on  which  heavy  pilasters  were  planted  against  the 
wall,  supporting  arches  that  crossed  one  another  in 
the  vaulted  ceiling.  The  upright  walls,  as  well  as  the 
compartments  of  the  roof,  were  completely  covered 
with  frescos,  which  doubtless  had  been  brilliant  when 
first  executed,  and  perhaps  for  generations  afterwards. 
The  designs  were  of  a  festive  and  joyous  character, 
representing  Arcadian  scenes,  where  nymphs,  fauns, 


SUNSHINE. 


261 


and  satyrs  disported  themselves  among  mortal  youths 
and  maidens  ;  and  Pan,  and  the  god  of  wine,  and  he 
of  sunshine  and  music,  disdained  not  to  brighten  some 
sylvan  merry-making  with  the  scarcely  veiled  glory  of 
their  presence.  A  wreath  of  dancing  figures,  in  ad¬ 
mirable  variety  of  shape  and  motion,  was  festooned 
quite  round  the  cornice  of  the  room. 

In  its  first  splendor,  the  saloon  must  have  presented 
an  aspect  both  gorgeous  and  enlivening ;  for  it  invested 
some  of  the  cheerfullest  ideas  and  emotions  of  which 
the  human  mind  is  susceptible  with  the  external  real¬ 
ity  of  beautiful  form,  and  rich,  harmonious  glow  and 
variety  of  color.  But  the  frescos  were  now  very  an¬ 
cient.  They  had  been  rubbed  and  scrubbed  by  old 
Stella  and  many  a  predecessor,  and  had  been  defaced 
in  one  spot,  and  retouched  in  another,  and  had  peeled 
from  the  wall  in  patches,  and  had  hidden  some  of 
their  brightest  portions  under  dreary  dust,  till  the 
joyousness  had  quite  vanished  out  of  them  all.  It  was 
often  difficult  to  puzzle  out  the  design  ;  and  even 
where  it  was  more  readily  intelligible,  the  figures 
showed  like  the  ghosts  of  dead  and  buried  joys,  — 
the  closer  their  resemblance  to  the  happy  past,  the 
gloomier  now.  For  it  is  thus,  that  with  only  an  in¬ 
considerable  change,  the  gladdest  objects  and  exist¬ 
ences  become  the  saddest ;  hope  fading  into  disappoint¬ 
ment;  joy  darkening  into  grief,  and  festal  splendor 
into  funereal  duskiness;  and  all  evolving,  as  their 
moral,  a  grim  identity  between  gay  things  and  sorrow¬ 
ful  ones.  Only  give  them  a  little  time,  and  they  turn 
out  to  be  just  alike ! 

“  There  has  been  much  festivity  in  this  saloon,  if  I 
may  judge  by  the  character  of  its  frescos,”  remarked 
Kenyon,  whose  spirits  were  still  upheld  by  the  mild 


262 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


potency  of  the  Monte  Beni  wine.  44  Your  forefathers, 
my  dear  Count,  must  have  been  joyous  fellows,  keep¬ 
ing  up  the  vintage  merriment  throughout  the  year. 
It  does  me  good  to  think  of  them  gladdening  the 
hearts  of  men  and  women,  with  their  wine  of  Sun¬ 
shine,  even  in  the  Iron  Age,  as  Pan  and  Bacchus, 
whom  we  see  yonder,  did  in  the  Golden  one !  ” 

44  Yes  ;  there  have  been  merry  times  in  the  banquet- 
hall  of  Monte  Beni,  even  within  my  own  remembrance,” 
replied  Donatello,  looking  gravely  at  the  painted  walls. 
44  It  was  meant  for  mirth,  as  you  see  ;  and  when  I 
brought  my  own  cheerfulness  into  the  saloon,  these 
frescos  looked  cheerful  too.  But,  methinks,  they  have 
all  faded  since  I  saw  them  last.” 

44  It  would  be  a  good  idea,”  said  the  sculptor,  falling 
into  his  companion’s  vein,  and  helping  him  out  with 
an  illustration  which  Donatello  himself  could  not  have 
put  into  shape,  44  to  convert  this  saloon  into  a  chapel ; 
and  when  the  priest  tells  his  hearers  of  the  instability 
of  earthly  joys,  and  would  show  how  drearily  they  van¬ 
ish,  he  may  point  to  these  pictures,  that  were  so  joy¬ 
ous  and  are  so  dismal.  He  could  not  illustrate  his 
theme  so  aptly  in  any  other  way.” 

44  True,  indeed,”  answered  the  Count,  his  former 
simplicity  strangely  mixing  itself  up  with  an  experi¬ 
ence  that  had  changed  him ;  44  and  yonder,  where  the 
minstrels  used  to  stand,  the  altar  shall  be  placed.  A 
sinful  man  might  do  all  the  more  effective  penance  in 
this  old  banquet-hall.” 

44  But  I  should  regret  to  have  suggested  so  ungenial 
a  transformation  in  your  hospitable  saloon,”  continued 
Kenyon,  duly  noting  the  change  in  Donatello’s  charac¬ 
teristics.  44  You  startle  me,  my  friend,  by  so  ascetic  a 
design !  It  would  hardly  have  entered  your  head,  when 


SUNSHINE. 


263 


we  first  met.  Pray  do  not,  —  if  I  may  take  the  free¬ 
dom  of  a  somewhat  elder  man  to  advise  you,”  added 
he,  smiling,  —  “  pray  do  not,  under  a  notion  of  im¬ 
provement,  take  upon  yourself  to  be  sombre,  thought¬ 
ful,  and  penitential,  like  all  the  rest  of  us.” 

Donatello  made  no  answer,  but  sat  awhile,  appear¬ 
ing  to  follow  with  his  eyes  one  of  the  figures,  which 
was  repeated  many  times  over  in  the  groups  upon  the 
walls  and  ceiling.  It  formed  the  principal  link  of  an 
allegory,  by  which  (as  is  often  the  case  in  such  picto¬ 
rial  designs)  the  whole  series  of  frescos  were  bound 
together,  but  which  it  would  be  impossible,  or,  at  least, 
very  wearisome,  to  unravel.  The  sculptor’s  eyes  took 
a  similar  direction,  and  soon  began  to  trace  through 
the  vicissitudes,  —  once  gay,  now  sombre,  —  in  which 
the  old  artist  had  involved  it,  the  same  individual  fig¬ 
ure.  He  fancied  a  resemblance  in  it  to  Donatello 
himself ;  and  it  put  him  in  mind  of  one  of  the  pur¬ 
poses  with  which  he  had  come  to  Monte  Beni. 

“  My  dear  Count,”  said  he,  “  I  have  a  proposal  to 
make.  You  must  let  me  employ  a  little  of  my  leisure 
in  modelling  your  bust.  You  remember  what  a  strik¬ 
ing  resemblance  we  all  of  us  —  Hilda,  Miriam,  and  I  — 
found  between  your  features  and  those  of  the  Faun  of 
Praxiteles.  Then,  it  seemed  an  identity ;  but  now  that 
I  know  your  face  better,  the  likeness  is  far  less  appar¬ 
ent.  Your  head  in  marble  would  be  a  treasure  to  me. 
Shall  I  have  it?  ” 

“I  have  a  weakness  which  I  fear  I  cannot  over¬ 
come,”  replied  the  Count,  turning  away  his  face.  “  It 
troubles  me  to  be  looked  at  steadfastly.” 

“  I  have  observed  it  since  we  have  been  sitting  here, 
though  never  before,”  rejoined  the  sculptor.  “  It  is 
a  kind  of  nervousness,  I  apprehend,  which  you  caught 


264 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


in  the  Roman  air,  and  which  grows  upon  you,  in  your 
solitary  life.  It  need  be  no  hindrance  to  my  taking 
your  bust ;  for  I  will  catch  the  likeness  and  expression 
by  side  glimpses,  which  (if  portrait-painters  and  bust- 
makers  did  but  know  it)  always  bring  home  richer  re¬ 
sults  than  a  broad  stare.” 

“  You  may  take  me  if  you  have  the  power,”  said 
Donatello  ;  but,  even  as  he  spoke,  he  turned  away  his 
face ;  “  and  if  you  can  see  what  makes  me  shrink  from 
you,  you  are  welcome  to  put  it  in  the  bust.  It  is  not 
my  will,  but  my  necessity,  to  avoid  men’s  eyes.  Only,” 
he  added,  with  a  smile  which  made  Kenyon  doubt 
whether  he  might  not  as  well  copy  the  Faun  as  model 
a  new  bust,  —  “  only,  you  know,  you  must  not  insist 
on  my  uncovering  these  ears  of  mine !  ” 

“  Nay  ;  I  never  should  dream  of  such  a  thing,”  an¬ 
swered  the  sculptor,  laughing,  as  the  young  Count 
shook  his  clustering  curls.  “  I  could  not  hope  to  per¬ 
suade  you,  remembering  how  Miriam  once  failed  !  ” 

Nothing  is  more  unaccountable  than  the  spell  that 
often  lurks  in  a  spoken  word.  A  thought  may  be  pres¬ 
ent  to  the  mind,  so  distinctly  that  no  utterance  could 
make  it  more  so ;  and  two  minds  may  be  conscious  of 
the  same  thought,  in  which  one  or  both  take  the  pro- 
foundest  interest ;  but  as  long  as  it  remains  unspoken, 
their  familiar  talk  flows  quietly  over  the  hidden  idea, 
as  a  rivulet  may  sparkle  and  dimple  over  something 
sunken  in  its  bed.  But,  speak  the  word ;  and  it  is 
like  bringing  up  a  drowned  body  out  of  the  deepest 
pool  of  the  rivulet,  which  has  been  aware  of  the  lior- 
rible  secret  all  along,  in  spite  of  its  smiling  surface. 

And  even  so,  when  Kenyon  chanced  to  make  a  dis¬ 
tinct  reference  to  Donatello’s  relations  with  Miriam 
(though  the  subject  was  already  in  both  their  minds), 


SUNSHINE. 


265 


a  ghastly  emotion  rose  up  out  of  the  depths  of  the 
young  Count’s  heart.  He  trembled  either  with  anger 
or  terror,  and  glared  at  the  sculptor  with  wild  eyes, 
like  a  wolf  that  meets  you  in  the  forest,  and  hesitates 
whether  to  flee  or  turn  to  bay.  But,  as  Kenyon  still 
looked  calmly  at  him,  his  aspect  gradually  became  less 
disturbed,  though  far  from  resuming  its  former  quie¬ 
tude. 

“  You  have  spoken  her  name,”  said  he,  at  last,  in  an 
altered  and  tremulous  tone  ;  “  tell  me,  now,  all  that 
you  know  of  her.” 

“  I  scarcely  think  that  I  have  any  later  intelligence 
than  yourself,”  answered  Kenyon  ;  “Miriam  left  Rome 
at  about  the  time  of  your  own  departure.  Within  a 
day  or  two  after  our  last  meeting  at  the  Church  of  the 
Capuchins,  I  called  at  her  studio  and  found  it  vacant. 
Whither  she  has  gone,  I  cannot  tell.” 

Donatello  asked  no  further  questions. 

They  rose  from  table,  and  strolled  together  about  the 
premises,  whiling  away  the  afternoon  with  brief  inter¬ 
vals  of  unsatisfactory  conversation,  and  many  shadowy 
silences.  The  sculptor  had  a  perception  of  change  in 
his  companion,  —  possibly  of  growth  and  development, 
but  certainly  of  change,  —  which  saddened  him,  be¬ 
cause  it  took  away  much  of  the  simple  grace  that  was 
the  best  of  Donatello's  peculiarities. 

Kenyon  betook  himself  to  repose  that  night  in  a 
grim,  old,  vaulted  apartment,  which,  in  the  lapse  of 
five  or  six  centuries,  had  probably  been  the  birth,  bri¬ 
dal,  and  death  chamber  of  a  great  many  generations  of 
the  Monte  Beni  family.  He  was  aroused,  soon  after 
daylight,  by  the  clamor  of  a  tribe  of  beggars  who  had 
taken  their  stand  in  a  little  rustic  lane  that  crept  be¬ 
side  that  portion  of  the  villa,  and  were  addressing  their 


266 


ROMANCE  OF  MONTE  BENI. 


petitions  to  the  open  windows.  By  and  by,  they  ap¬ 
peared  to  have  received  alms,  and  took  their  depar¬ 
ture. 

“  Some  charitable  Christian  has  sent  those  va<ra- 
bonds  away,”  thought  the  sculptor,  as  he  resumed  his 
interrupted  nap  ;  “  who  could  it  be  ?  Donatello  has 
his  own  rooms  in  the  tower ;  Stella,  Tomaso,  and  the 
cook  are  a  world’s  width  off ;  and  I  fancied  myself  the 
only  inhabitant  in  this  part  of  the  house.” 

In  the  breadth  and  space  which  so  delightfully  char¬ 
acterize  an  Italian  villa,  a  dozen  guests  might  have 
had  each  his  suite  of  apartments  without  infringing 
upon  one  another’s  ample  precincts.  But,  so  far  as 
Kenyon  knew,  he  was  the  only  visitor  beneath  Dona¬ 
tello’s  widely  extended  roof. 


iff  e 


i 


9*s~  z? 
'  O 
i/.  / 


